1987: 15 Years On (Aftermask)
by SteveAtwater
Summary: The events of "The Mask" may seem like they only affected Kitty and Bunny, but as it turns out, Mad Dog was more important than you might think. The repercussions are now affecting Nowhere, and the town may never be the same. Set in 2002 because that's when "The Mask" aired and because I wrote a timeline that puts it then. Rated M for strong language and murder.
1. Welcome to the Jungle

_Bloodstains._

 _A pounding beat._

 _Doorknob sticky. It turned._

 _Legs, legs, many legs._

 _A voice, dry and emotionless._

 _Run. Have to run. Have to run._

 _Escape must escape._

 _Run._

Shirley's eyes burst open. She'd had that dream before, but for some reason she was having it more often these days. It had been with her for quite a while, since, oh, when was it? She couldn't really remember; of course, there were lots of things she couldn't remember. Like where she had gotten her crystal ball. It had been with her for what seemed like her whole adult life, but for some reason, she wasn't sure where she had picked it up.

Oh well, the crystal ball was not important. As her heart slowed to its normal pace, Shirley stood up and slowly walked to the bathroom. Once there, she got a drink of water. She was in the middle of swallowing it when her heart once again began beating double-time. Struck with fear, all Shirley could do was stand still. The glass she was holding dropped from her hand as she stared at herself, wide-eyed in the mirror. She was having a premonition, the details of which were faint and disturbing. Not only that, but every time things seemed to get slightly clearer, her mind would fog up, as though it was trying to keep her from finding out what was going on.

Shirley stood in the bathroom, motionless, for several minutes. Not all of these were due to her being in a trance; in fact, the trance itself only lasted a few seconds. However, she spent the next few minutes trying to come to grips with what she had seen.

While she was unsure of the specific details, she knew this much: an evil force had been defeated by a good one, but unfortunately, this was going to lead an even more evil force to take control and gain more power. She knew that this was what the future entailed, but not how, where, when, or why.

Finally, she broke the still of the air, shuddering at what she had seen. Despite knowing she wouldn't sleep again that night, Shirley did the only thing she could: she went back to bed and laid there until the morning, all the while trying to puzzle out what had happened and what it might mean for her.


	2. Have a Cuppa Tea

An old woman was sitting on the porch of a farmhouse, eating an apple, when a green-and-yellow truck pulled off the road and drove up to it. The driver's side door opened and the driver jumped out, revealing himself as a small pink dog with bloodshot eyes.

"Courage!" the woman happily exclaimed. "Where have you been, dog?"

A groan was all that the dog could muster up as he stumbled forward towards his owner. Upon reaching the porch, he made his way into her lap and settled down.

"We've been waiting for you all night," Muriel continued. "Kitty's gone, but she's left something behind. Eustace has taken a fancy to it."

Courage looked up at her quizzically.

"Ah, well, it's good to have you home, Courage. Come on, let's have a cup of tea."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Courage was once again seated on Muriel's lap. This time, however, they were inside. Muriel was rocking in her rocking chair, sipping a fresh-made cup of tea while gently rocking back and forth, while Courage was contentedly resting on her lap. Courage was just about to drift off to a well-earned rest when his ears pricked up as he heard the telltale sound of Eustace coming up the stairs. Instinctively, his muscles tightened slightly; he had learned that sometimes it was hard to get rest when the old man was around.

Eustace entered the room, sat down in his easy chair, and opened the paper. Silence filled the room, but this time Courage was able to relax. Despite Eustace's stone-faced frown, Courage could sense that the farmer was actually content. This was a welcome change of pace from what usually happened when he came up from the basement or in from the outdoors after being unable to fix something, which was sit in his chair, unfurl his paper, and let a tense silence fill the room–one that was only broken when he would whip out some sort of horrifying mask to scare Courage. No matter how often it happened, Courage would always fall for it and panic, even though he knew it was coming. But that was not going to happen now, it seemed. Eustace was, for once, in a good mood. Courage relaxed and soon fell asleep.

The trio sat in the living room, surrounded by a happy, comfortable silence, just a man, his wife, and her dog enjoying a nice morning.

* * *

At some point, Muriel must have moved Courage off of her lap and onto the floor. The only reason that Courage found this out was because that was where he awoke. What had woken him up was a heavenly scent coming from the kitchen. Naturally, he wanted to find out exactly what it was, so he stood up and walked through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Inside, he found Muriel cooking up a smorgasbord of food: fish, mashed potatoes, gravy, a fruit salad, and a fresh-baked cherry pie. Instantly, he began salivating. Muriel turned to him.

"Now, Courage, don't fret," she gently admonished. "It'll be ready soon."

Courage knew that he'd do something he'd regret–well, perhaps not something he'd regret, but something that Muriel wouldn't like–if he were to stay in the kitchen any longer, so he turned and walked back out the door. There, in the living room, he found Eustace watching TV. It was some show about three weirdos with superpowers beating up a defenseless monkey. Eustace laughed at a particularly savage blow dealt by the redhead of the trio.

"EUSSSTAAACEEE!" came a happy bellow from the kitchen. "SUPPER'S READY!"

Eustace arose from his chair and headed into the kitchen. "C'mon, stupid dog," he absentmindedly told Courage. "It's time for supper."

Courage followed Eustace into the kitchen. Seeing his dish on the table, he took a seat next to the farmer, expecting to be yelled at for having the audacity to sit at the table. This was indeed what happened.

"Stupid dog, dogs aren't supposed to sit at the table!"

"Now Eustace," Muriel intervened. "Courage is a part of the family. He should sit with us."

"Yeah, well–"

Eustace was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He picked up. "Yeah? Who is this?"

A garbled message came through the wire, but was cut off halfway through.

"We don't want any–free? It's free? A trip to where? All expenses paid?"

Finally allowed to talk, the person on the other end of the line spent the better part of a minute explaining everything to the farmer. The longer the explanation went on, the wider Eustace's smile grew. When the explanation finally finished, Eustace's smile was so wide that a watermelon could have been made to fit inside his toothless maw.

"Alright, mister, I can't see any way you're scamming me. You've got yourself a deal."

The man on the other end told Eustace some final details and then hung up. Eustace hung up as well.

"Who was that, Eustace?" his wife asked.

"Get this. Some crazy guy wants to send us to China. For free!"

"Oh my! I've always wanted to see the Great Wall!"

"Yeah, he said he'd send our tickets over tomorrow and we would leave the day after!"

"Isn't this exciting, Courage?"

Courage swallowed the lump in his throat. "I've got a bad feeling about this..." he muttered to himself.

The trio then proceeded to tuck into their dinners. Before long, almost everything was polished off; all that was left was a single slice of pie. Muriel let out an astronomical belch and giggled.

"Oh my," Muriel said happily. "Well, I'm stuffed. Would either of you like the last piece of pie?"

Courage and Eustace answered at the same time. They then locked gazes, both desiring the pie. Eustace was the first to look away.

"Ah, let the stupid dog have it," he said. Eustace pushed his chair back, took his plate to the sink, and went out into the living room. As he left, he once again called Courage a stupid dog, but this, almost as much as the sacrifice of the last slice of pie, gave Courage pause, for Eustace had uttered his trademark put-down in a way that seemed almost...affectionate?

The TV came back on in the living room, and Courage tucked into his pie. Maybe China would be fun after all.


	3. Roy Rogers

Just as Courage was pulling the truck up to the farmhouse, five dogs were having a meeting in a rundown apartment building. They were all standing around in a kitchen. All of them were wearing identical spiked collars and had identical teeth as sharp as the spikes around their neck. Their eyes were red, but whether this was due to natural pigmentation or them being incredibly bloodshot was impossible to tell. Despite the similarities between them, some differences could be seen. The largest one was angrily stomping around, pacing in the middle of the room as he growled angrily. In the corner stood another dog, this one with a tattoo snaking up and down his arm composed of purest blue, providing a bright shock of color against his black fur. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was patiently waiting for someone to speak. Another dog was standing apart from the group with a manic glint in his eye. He was the smallest dog of all, who had large muscles and his hand in his pocket caressing some unseen weapon. Finally, leaning against the countertop were two other dogs, one with a Bible in his hand and a worried look in his eyes, the other with a bottle of malt liquor and a deadened gaze. Both of them were clad in black leather jackets and sported a multitude of bumps on their head.

"What the FUCK were you DOING?!" the biggest dog suddenly yelled. Everyone but the smallest dog looked at him with fear in their eyes.

"Johnny, relax," the Bible-clutching dog nervously replied. "This is–"

"THIS IS BULLSHIT!" Jonathan bellowed. "How the FUCK do you let something THIS FUCKED UP happen? ARE YOU FUCKING STUPID? DO YOU HAVE A GODDAMN DEATHWISH?"

"Hey, could you keep it down?" the dog with the bottle mumbled. "I've got a killer headache, and I..."

The dog with the bottle trailed off as he saw the look on Jonathan's face. Twisted with pure hatred, it was the epitome of an angry dog. Jonathan looked like one of those dangerous, abused guard dogs you hear about–the ones made so angry by lifetimes of abuse that once given a chance to rip out somebody's throat they do just that. Jonathan was about to do just that.

"Keep it down, you say?" Jonathan spoke the words with false sweetness as he advanced on the dog with the bottle. "Sure, of course. Silly me. You have a bump on your head. It's not like you did anything to deserve that bump."

Nervously, the dog with the bottle tried to backtrack. "N-now listen, John, I–I messed up, I know, I'm sorry, but, but, well, you, well, sometimes things just, well, things just, y'know, happen?"

"Things just happen, you say?" Jonathan's face shifted into a wicked, vicious, sadistic grin. "I know what that's like."

Jonathan stood no more than a foot away from the dog with the bottle. His eyes locked on his unfortunate victim's head.

"Hey."

Jonathan's head snapped around. The dog in the corner had spoken.

"Back off him. We're all a little riled up right now, and we've all gotta stay calm and keep it together."

"Oh, do you think you're in charge here, _Reginald_?" Jonathan snarled. "Are you suddenly my boss?" Anger refocused, Jonathan advanced on the tattooed dog.

"That's not what I'm saying at all. Listen, you're in charge, nobody's disputing that. And he screwed up, nobody's saying otherwise. I'm just saying that right now, we're all in a pretty bad position, and fighting amongst ourselves isn't going to do anything to help."

Jonathan stopped. Although he was still angry, the rational part of his brain knew that Reginald was right. Killing James, as cathartic as it might be, wasn't going to help in any way. Reginald noticed and pressed his advantage.

"We're all behind you. But we can't go around yelling at each other. We've got to stick together closer than ever if we're going to get through this."

Jonathan growled. "You're right, as usual, Reginald."

A silence descended on the room. Jonathan resumed pacing until the silence was broken, this time by the dog with the Bible.

"So...not to step on any toes, but...what exactly is the problem?"

Everyone stared at him.

"I mean, it's a tragedy and all, but...I don't see the problem?"

The staring continued.

"And...I'm not happy about it or anything but...why are we...in trouble?"

Jonathan took a deep breath.

"Brian."

"What?"

"Do you think we're the only game in town?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"Do you think that this gravy train will keep on rolling?"

"Kind of?"

"Then what did Mad Dog contribute?"

"Um...he told us what to do?"

"Exactly. And why did we put up with it?"

"Because he's the boss?"

"And why was he the boss?"

"Because...he was?"

Jonathan sighed.

"Mad Dog was the leader because he knew how to run things," Jonathan patiently explained. "He knew where to strike and when, he knew who to help out and who to hurt, and he knew what was best for everyone–this gang, the neighborhood, the whole shebang. Mad Dog understood people. He knew what they wanted and how to get it to them, and he knew how to go about doing so. He also knew who would attack him, and why, and how to either get them to not attack or how to deflect the attack in order to launch a counterstrike–and if neither of those were options, he would draw up a plan to get rid of them before they could get rid of him. He understood what everyone wanted and what was best for everyone. I mean, did you ever have a problem with Mad Dog, or with how he ran things?"

"No?" Brian ventured.

"Exactly." Jonathan replied. "Nobody who knew him or worked for him had a problem with him."

"What about Bunny?"

Everyone's gaze swung over to James, who instantly looked like he wanted to take the words and cram them back into his mouth. Even though his head injuries and the alcohol in his system were making his brain slow, it was fast enough to process that he had just said the exact wrong thing.

"Bunny was a bitch," the small muscular dog proclaimed.

Nodding assent, Jonathan agreed "Exactly, David. Bunny was a bitch."

"And that's why we kill her."

This gave Jonathan pause. He opened and closed his mouth several times in sequence before speaking again.

"You're right," Jonathan said. "I'd like to say you're wrong and that we're not ready to take a chance on hunting down someone just to avenge our leader, but you're right. If anything, we need to do this more than anything else, to show that if you mess with us, you die. So...I'm putting you and Reginald on the job."

"WHAT?" David angrily yelled. "THAT STUPID CO–"

"Yeah, that's exactly why," Jonathan smoothly proclaimed. "You're a bit of a loose cannon, and I don't believe you'd be able to hunt her down if you were going it alone. You've definitely got enough balls to do it, but you're reckless. Reggie can come up with a plan that won't backfire on us. Not only that, but it'll probably consist of more than '1. Stab the bitch, 2. In the face, 3. With a knife.'"

David wanted to argue, but couldn't. He knew that, even though Jonathan's plan sounded fishy, it was logically sound. Besides, Jonathan had the other three main members of the gang behind him.

"Now then," Jonathan said as he moved on, "we've got to figure out what to do about all the people who will be attacking us. Brian, James, you spent a lot of time with Mad Dog as he went around the city, correct? You should know where he was in the most danger, and more than that, you should know who he was in the most danger from, right? After all, you were his bodyguards."

"Yeah..." Brian said. "But, uh, he, uh, well...that's a lot of people."

"Alright," Jonathan said. "What I want you two to do is go back to his apartment and look for an enemies list, and if you can't find one, make one up yourselves of all the people who were after him. Give me all the info you have. We'll meet again to discuss things in a day. You get into any trouble, you call me, I'll get someone to help you out. I'm going to figure out what to do based on what I know."

After he finished speaking, a silence descended. It lasted all of five seconds.

"Well? What the fuck are you all standing around for? Get the fuck out of my apartment!"

The other four dogs tramped towards the door.

"Except you, Reginald. I want to know where you think Bunny went."

* * *

As soon as the three remaining dogs left the apartment, David was speaking.

"Did you see what that cocksucker just did? He fucked us over! He fucked us like we were his bitches and you all fucking stood there and fucking took it!"

Brian and James ignored him as they headed towards Mad Dog's apartment. David didn't notice.

"I mean Jesus Fucking Christ–" Brian winced at the sound of somebody taking the Lord's name in vain "–what a fucking asshole! He just, he just, he's gonna let fucking Bunny get away with fucking murder!" David finally noticed nobody was paying attention to him. "Are you motherfuckers listening? He's gonna let Bunny get away!"

Fed up, James turned to him. "Listen, you little shitbag, do you ever shut your fucking cakehole? I mean, god-fucking-damnit, nobody gives a fucking shit what you think. You always think that someone's out to fuck you over, and you know what? The only motherfucker in the world who gives enough shits to fuck you over is YOU. I mean, honestly, shithead, you fuck yourself in every way possible and then complain that the world's out to get you. Well guess what, fuckface? You can BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS!"

"No no no I'm fucking serious, you asshole!" Sensing a victim, David continued. "You see how he put that dipshit Reginald on Bunny? I guarantee you that's because he knows how Reginald doesn't take any fucking risks! He knows that Reggie's gonna find her, but never be able to pin her down sufficiently enough for Reggie to actually go out there! And of course Reggie's gonna tip off Johnny to where she is, and Johnny's gonna go find her and fuck her! The bastard has always had eyes for the bitch, even when she was Mad Dog's! Now he's dead, and Johnny's got a fucking shot! You think the motherfucker won't take it?"

"Listen, David, just shut the fuck up," James responded. "You don't know what you're saying. God, it's almost as if you're the one who's been drinking, not me."

"No but–"

"BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS!" So saying, James turned and ran to catch up with Brian. They were now at Mad Dog's apartment building. James and Brian entered, leaving David behind.

"Motherfucking idiots," David muttered. Had James, Brian, Reginald, or Jonathan heard him, they might have chuckled; after all, that was how they thought of David.

* * *

In the apartment, Reginald had a seat on the couch. Jonathan came over to him and handed him a tumbler of whiskey.

"Thank you," Reginald said.

"You think that's enough?" Jonathan asked.

"Yes, I have quite enough whiskey."

"You know what I mean."

"Well, I–"

"Listen, they've been gone for five minutes. I heard them leave. I even heard that asshole David cursing my name. We can speak freely."

"Okay. Thank you. For all of that."

"You know what I want in exchange."

"Yes, I know. Undying loyalty."

"Not just that. I might have been Mad Dog's right hand man, but you were his left hand. And he had an odd thing about that, I guess Brian would say it was 'do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing' or some shit. Regardless, you know shit I'm not privy to. If I'm gonna lead us, I'm gonna need to know it."

Reginald sighed and took a drink. After swallowing it, he began to speak.

"Okay. Look, I know a lot of stuff, but most of it was financial. You know how you were told who to hold up and demand protection money from, and how you scouted locations we might want to move into? Well I did financial analysis. You know, saw where the money was coming from, whether there were any trends, figured out what we might want to do differently, looked at payroll–I was basically just a glorified accountant."

"We need an accountant," Jonathan noted.

"Yeah, but right now I'm not sure how much help I can be," Reginald replied.

"I'll figure it out."

Reginald finished his drink and put his tumbler down on the kitchen counter. He then headed for the door.

"You're an idiot, you know."

Reginald stopped.

"She never even noticed you."

"I know," Reginald quietly replied.

"And she's not coming back. I mean, you saw that Mad Dog couldn't hold her forever, and now she's off with her best friend forever–and however seriously they may or may not take the first two words of that phrase, I'm pretty sure they're taking the forever part of it as gospel."

Reginald stood by the door, shoulders slumped. After a minute, though, he regathered his courage and turned to face his new boss.

"Look, Johnny," he said. "I don't know–I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm thinking. I don't know what I hope to get out of this." He exhaled. "But I love her. I love her more than words. And as much as it cuts me to think I could never be part of her plans, as much as that slices up my insides, I know, I mean–" Reginald stopped and searched for the right words. He found reasonable facsimiles after a few seconds. "Did you see what that bastard Mad Dog did to her? I mean, I know he was the gang leader, and I'd seen him be hard on others–fuck me, I know it's necessary if you want to make it in this world. But Jesus Christ, seeing him do that to her–if I was gutsier, if I was crazier, if I was as stupid as David, I would have killed his ass. But I didn't, I stood there and let it happen, and I watched, and this was in public. I never saw him behind closed doors. Now she's got a shot at happiness, and even if it ain't with me, I just, I just, I just want to see her go for it. If that means I have to stop David from getting at her, then, well, that's what I have to do. And I know you didn't have to do anything for me, you didn't have to give me cover to keep the others from hunting her down, but, but, but, well, thank you. I'm gonna do my best not to waste it."

Jonathan took a moment to take in all that Reginald had just said and then nodded. Taking this as his cue, Reginald exited the apartment. Jonathan waited a full minute after he'd left to get up and went into the kitchen. Once there, he reached into a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a stiff drink.

"What a load of bullshit," he spoke towards the empty room. "He and I both know he just wants to see her again, to pretend he's got a shot." Jonathan downed his drink in one gulp. "But he's not gonna make a move, ever." He laughed. "Who knows? Maybe he'll rationalize his inability to ever take a risk as him just wanting all his crushes to be 'happy.' Hell, maybe he already has."

Jonathan exited the main part of his apartment in favor of his bedroom. There, he had stored all the information he had it his disposal. It was time to create a plan.


	4. Utopia Parkway

"So, uh, yes, that's why I'm afraid that I have to leave my position. You see, my health issues just won't allow it. I'm terribly sorry about this, terribly sorry, sir."

A man was shaking, shivering in his woolen suit even though the office he was in was well heated. He was standing in front of an ornate wooden desk, behind which was seated his superior. His superior looked him up and down appraisingly.

"Is that so?" the man's boss asked. Despite the fact that the question was asked in a perfectly civil tone, with not a hint of anger or annoyance, the man seemed to be even more afraid then before.

"Y-y-yes sir. It is. I'm very sorry."

"Hmm."

This noncommittal utterance only served to exacerbate the poor man's anxiety. It was almost as if he was caught in a spiraling whirlpool of fear, where every word from his boss, no matter how benign, would scare him even more. However, the only thing that could have been worse for his mental state than a lecture from his boss came to pass, as neither he nor his boss spoke for the better part of five minutes. Finally, though, the man was driven to break the silence even though he was incredibly afraid of what would follow.

"Sir, I really–"

His boss held up a hand to silence him. After a few seconds, his boss swiveled his office chair around to look out onto the city.

"Tell me, what day is it?"

"It's um, it's um, it's–"

"Saturday. Do try to keep up."

"Yes sir."

"Perhaps I should ask you an easier question. What _time_ is it?"

"It's, it's, it's–"

"It's 10:34. And 28 seconds."

"Thank you sir."

"So it's Saturday morning, is it not?"

"Yes sir."

"You came into my office on Saturday morning–no, scratch that. You came into work on Saturday morning just so you could quit?"

"Well, sir, I, sir, I, um, yes."

"Where are we?"

"Denver?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling?"

"Oh, so you know where we are better than I do? Even though you came into work on a Saturday morning just so you could quit, you know better than your boss all of a sudden?"

"No sir no _sir!_ I-I mean asking! I'm asking you!"

"Interesting. Not a man of conviction, are you?"

"No-yes-no–no."

"It's a beautiful Saturday morning in Denver, isn't it?"

"Yes sir?"

"Yes, this is not a day when you should even be at work. You know, I admire you, Mr. Jones."

"You–you do, sir?"

Even though he knew this was on the surface a compliment, this comment only made Mr. Jones feel more disturbed. Fear gripped him even tighter.

"Yes, I do. You saw what a beautiful day it was, and decided that life is for the living. It's unfortunate it took you until now to figure that out. After all, I've known for quite a while that you didn't really like this job."

"You–you did, sir?"

"Yes, it was plain to everyone. Very well, then, feel free to leave. I wish you luck on whatever you try your hand at next."

"Th–thank you, sir! Thank you!"

Mr. Jones felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He turned and happily strode out of his boss' office, on his way to clear out his own. His boss turned back to his desk in order to watch him go, and then pressed the button that would connect him to the receptionist.

"Yes, Mr. Katz?"

"Mr. Jones has just departed from his job. Please tell Security to break his kneecaps. Not now, though–do it when he comes out, in the parking lot. I want to watch."

"Yes, sir."

"And he should be carrying items from his office. Steal them from him. I feel I might have a use for some of them."

"Yes, sir. Oh, just one question."

"What is it?"

"Should Security use golf clubs or baseball bats on his knees?"

"You know, I'm feeling playful today. Have one of them use a baseball bat, and the other use a nine-iron. And tell them that whichever one makes him scream loudest gets a raise."

"Of course, sir."

Katz turned off the intercom and snickered evilly. Grinning, he turned to the window, waiting patiently, with the silent tickle of anticipation giving him a sadistic high.

He didn't have to wait long, as it turned out. Mr. Jones was already mostly ready to go, and had packed up much of his office in readiness for his departure. As such, it only took him fifteen minutes to get to the parking lot with all of his stuff. Once there, though, he was in for a surprise, as two burly, faceless men wearing jumpsuits descended upon him and proceeded to mash his knees into bloody pulp with the creative use of some sporting equipment. As he screamed for help and screamed from pain, a tall, red-and-purple cat who not twenty minutes ago was his boss watched from his office while chortling evilly. When Mr. Jones finally passed out, the firm's security just left him lying on the ground with unworkable legs and gathered up his equipment. They then headed inside and left Mr. Jones there.

"Oh, well, the show's over," Katz sighed to himself. "At least it was a good one." An idea struck him. "Oh, of course! I nearly forgot!" Katz turned on the intercom.

"Yes, Mr. Katz?"

"Sorry to bother you again, but please inform the one with the golf club that he will be receiving a 5% raise, effective immediately."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and be a dear and call an ambulance for poor Mr. Jones. I'm afraid he ran into some medical problems in the parking lot."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

Katz turned off the intercom and faced his computer screen. He booted up the internet and instantly went to some of the news sites he had bookmarked. He spent the next two hours going from the _Denver Post_ to the _New York Times_ to the _Wall Street Journal_ to the _London Times_ before finally visiting the website of a small Kansas newspaper. Once the page had loaded up, however, his eyes bulged. There, on the front page of the _Nowhere News_ website was a picture of a dog with the caption "Citizen Dies in Train Crash." The shocking, horrific death was not what caught Katz's attention, however. Well, not the death so much as the subject of the death. Katz knew the subject of the story, although it had been quite some time–nine years and change–since they had last met.

A smile crossed his face. Katz quickly went to the article and read it. It confirmed what he wanted it to: Marshall "Mad Dog" Davies was dead. Immediately, Katz turned on the intercom again, this time calling his secretary.

"Yes, Mr. Katz?"

"Cancel all my appointments and don't allow anyone to see me. I have some urgent business to attend to that just came up, and I will be very busy in my office."

"Yes, sir."

Katz disconnected and set to work, planning and plotting. After four hours, he had finally come up with a plan of attack that he knew would get him exactly what he wanted. He was just about to set off when he suddenly realized that there was one factor that he had failed to account for, that had inexplicably shown up in many of his other plans. He looked at the clock. It was almost 5 o'clock in Colorado. In Kansas it would be 6:00, or suppertime. He picked up the phone and dialed information for a certain small town in order to get a number. Once he had it, he made a call.

"Yeah? Who is this?"

"Greetings, sir. I am from–"

"We don't want any!"

"It's free."

"Free?"

"Yes, a free trip to China."

"It's free?"

"Yes sir."

"A trip to where?"

"To China, sir. All expenses will be paid."

"All expenses paid?"

"Yes, sir. Allow me to explain. I work for the Dil Corporation. Approximately a month ago, someone in your family filled out a survey on customer satisfaction that included the possibility of winning a trip for three to China. There, you will be given a full two-week vacation, with reservations at the finest hotels, a company credit card to be used for meals and entertainment, and free transportation wherever you may want to go. Now, this does come with some restrictions; I regret to inform you that if you wish to go, you must go tomorrow. A taxi will be sent to pick you up, carrying with it your plane tickets. Now, while I do understand this is short notice, I assure you that everything has been taken care of."

Silence held on the line for a few seconds before the man on the other end began speaking again.

"Alright, mister, I can't see any way you're scamming me. You've got yourself a deal."

"Very well, then. Your taxi should be by to pick you up at noon tomorrow. Thank you, and may you have a fantastic vacation."

The man on the other end hung up. Katz did the same, and then made the arrangements for a three-person trip to China from Nowhere, and a one-person plane ride from Denver to Nowhere. He was just about ready to go when the phone rang on his desk. He picked up.

"Hello? Oh, hello, Mr. Jones. Oh, in the parking lot? Security personnel? I find that very unlikely. What's that? Health insurance? No, of course you're no longer on the company's health insurance. You quit your job here, remember? I pushed your resignation through lickety-split. Oh, well, getting into a horrible accident right after you lose your insurance is bad luck, I agree. You have a wonderful day now."

Katz hung up the phone and smirked. He had almost forgotten about that little act of sadism earlier today, but now it was providing him with a little extra spring in his step. It was now most definitely time to show Nowhere who really runs it.


	5. It's So Easy

_Bloodstains on the floor, a pounding beat in the air. She came to a doorknob, sticky with some strange foreign substance, but it turned. She looked in, there were legs, legs, and a voice, a voice that spoke words, words indecipherable. Time to run, run away, escape, escape the only possibility no other choice. If not escape then–no. No._

 _Run._

Shirley awoke again. This was the second night in a row she'd had this dream, and she couldn't shake the idea that it was somehow connected to the new evil descending upon her adopted hometown.

Now that she thought about it, she didn't know why here, exactly. Something had brought her here.

 _Or someone._

The thought came unbidden. Shirley didn't know what it meant; was this someone a spirit? A person? Why was she here, of all places?

Now that the question had entered her head, it wouldn't go away. Why was she in Nowhere? Why Kansas? What led her to this town?

Had it been another night, she perhaps would have lain awake a long time, straining to remember. However, the previous night of sleeplessness was not something that could be washed away with questions, and even as she thought these thoughts and strained to figure it out, the sandman overtook her and she soon found herself dreaming the uncertain dreams of the restless, dreams punctuated by questions and figments of a mostly-forgotten past that came close to her but then disappeared before they could become clear.


	6. Catch the Rainbow

It was 10:00 A.M. on Sunday, and inside the laboratory of the Nowhere Hospital, the body of one Marshall Davies was lying on a table. Mr. Davies had been a corpse for approximately thirty-one hours, and the cause of death seemed to be pretty obvious to everyone involved; death is often the only result when someone rams their car full speed into a passenger train going the other direction. However, as obvious as the cause of death might seem, an autopsy had been ordered by the Nowhere Police Department, and Dr. Blackmore was currently performing it. He was almost finished when a burly, red-haired, mustachioed man burst in, chomping on a doughnut.

"You done yet, Blackmore?" the man asked.

Hal Blackmore sighed. He was used to policemen coming in and interfering with his work. It was one of the curses of working with small-town police; they thought they were masters of the universe.

"No," he replied. "I'm not done yet, Yosemite Sam."

"That's Officer Frith!" the man he had called Yosemite Sam responded.

"Please don't eat in the autopsy room," Hal said, hoping to get the policeman to leave.

"Alright, fine," Officer Frith responded. He then proceeded to finish off the remaining half of his doughnut in one bite, spraying crumbs everywhere. "So when will you be done?"

Annoyed, Hal told him "I haven't even collected the necessary samples to find out if there were any drugs in his system. It will take at least another half an hour to collect that data, and another day for the results to come in."

Officer Frith belched and then, without excusing himself, asked "So have you examined the outside of the body?"

Hal debated whether Frith would leave quicker if he said no. He decided against it and replied "Well, apart from the usual injuries suffered when someone rams their car headlong into a train, no, there wasn't much suspicious. The only odd things were a bruise on his right arm, as if somebody grabbed him there, and bruises around his neck."

"Strangulation?" Frith suggested.

"No, more as if somebody had put a collar around his neck and he was trying to break it. In fact, it looked like the collar he was wearing was the one that caused those, albeit not out of being too tight. Like I said, it seemed like he was chained to something by the collar," Hal summarized.

"Huh. Well, that collar was one of his distinguishing characteristics," Frith responded.

"Really? Does that have anything to do with why you ordered an autopsy?" Hal asked.

"Well, this is all very hush-hush, never speak ill of the dead and all that, but..." Frith looked around the room to make sure they were alone. "We suspect that he was the leader of the Junkyard Dogs."

"The who?" Hal was confused.

"The Junkyard Dogs, you know, the gang that runs most of the crime in this city?" Frith explained.

"Well why didn't you arrest him?" Hal asked.

"There's a difference between what we know and what we can prove," Frith said. "For example, we may know that this gang is behind pretty much all the crime in the city, but we can't prove most of it. Getting proof on the ones lower down is easy enough, but none of them will rat out the higher-ups. As a result, getting proof on any of them is next to impossible, as they usually aren't the ones who _commit_ crimes; they just order them committed."

"Okay, that makes sense," Hal said. "But why do you need an autopsy?"

"Because we suspect foul play may have been involved," Frith replied.

Hal nodded. "I understand." He then proceeded to get to work.

"Oh, and by the way?" Frith mentioned. "We need you to not leave too many marks. The family has requested an open casket funeral."

"Okay," Hal said. "When's the funeral?"

"It's on Wednesday, so three days from now," Frith told him.

"Got it," Hal responded. "Make sure to take samples from some part of the body that will be covered." He resumed working on the body. Frith stood around awkwardly for a few seconds and then left.


	7. Nightrain

_She was walking down a hall. There were bloodstains on the floors. Her ears perked up as she neared a door. Behind the door was the sound of a pounding beat. Or maybe not a beat, but rather some sort of syncopated percussion. She grabbed the doorknob and found it sticky. Despite her initial disgust, she turned it and the door swung open, revealing_

 _No._

 _No._

 _She couldn't see it._

 _All she was getting were brief glimpses, as if the light in the room was strobing on and off._

 _Legs. There were legs._

 _And a voice._

 _But the words were indecipherable._

 _And she ran._

 _The speaker gave chase, she ran, needing to escape, knowing she had to get away if she was to survive._

 _Run._

 _Run._

 _Find a way out, out into the street, and run away._

 _Run towards the lights so far away, get off the road, find shelter, cover, find some way out._

 _Make an escape._

 _Run._

Shirley woke up once again. It was the middle of the night, and she was having the same dream for the third night in a row. This time, though, she was going to get some answers. She got up and went over to her crystal ball.

"Show me the face of the new evil!" she demanded. The crystal ball did not respond.

"Show me the face of whomever will bring destruction on this town!" she demanded. The crystal ball did not respond.

"Show me the face of my tormentor!" she demanded. This time, the crystal ball responded, and an image started to form. Before it could clear up, though, it faded, and the crystal ball filled with fog.

"What?! What is this?" Shirley yelped. She then took a moment to consider the response. "Ah. My mind is too clouded for some reason. I know this person, but I don't want to. Very well. Where can I find the source of this dream?"

The crystal ball went blank, refusing to respond.

"Where can I find the source of the trouble?"

The crystal ball stayed unresponsive.

"Don't make me get my sax."

At this threat, the crystal ball fizzled and then resolved into an image. It was a picture of a funeral home; more specifically, it was Nowhere's mortuary. The image moved inside, where some employees were seen preparing a body.

"Very well. Where and when is the funeral?"

The crystal ball displayed an image of a dilapidated church with the caption "Wednesday, October 23."

"Thank you."

The crystal ball faded out, and Shirley put it away. She went back to bed with a heavy feeling in her gut, knowing that she would be at the funeral of whomever the deceased was even though it was obviously a bad idea to go there.


	8. Funeral for a Friend, Love Lies Bleeding

**Wednesday, October 23, 9:00 A.M., Jonathan's Apartment**

The five dogs in charge of the Junkyard Dogs gang were once again gathered in Jonathan's apartment. Brian was clutching his Bible close to his face and studiously reading passages, hoping to be inspired by God's word. James was clutching a bottle, periodically taking swigs. He looked like he had had a rough night. Another victim of the rough nights club was Reginald, whose eyes were bloodshot and weary. Jonathan also looked weary, although he was doing his best not to show it; however, it was apparent that the stress of taking over leadership in Mad Dog's stead was starting to wear on him. In fact, the only one of them who looked to be in decent shape was David, who seemed to be well-rested and relaxed.

The discomfort on the faces of most of the dogs was not only due to the stress of suddenly being put in charge of the Junkyard Dogs, but also the fact that they were wearing starched formal suits that they had never worn before. The reason for this was simple: as much as Mad Dog liked to fancy himself among the upper echelon of gangsters, he had never really risen above gutter-level. This was evident to everybody except for himself and his gang members, who were just now being forced into an uncomfortable reminder that they weren't quite upper-class.

Mad Dog, of course, would have hated such an idea. He had managed to convince himself that his gang was a regular bunch of small-town Mafiosos, fit to rub elbows and shake hands with the big boys. He pictured himself as a mix of Vito Corleone and Arthur Jarrett; he saw himself as the manic and violent James Cagney combined with the suave and sly Marlon Brando; he believed that at his best he was Jesus Christ Superman and at his worst he was the bastard spawn of Alex DeLarge and Frank Booth.

And his gang, oh, his gang! The meanest, toughest, nastiest, most loyal sunsabitches on the planet! If he ever managed to end up in trouble, they'd take care of it and continue to treat him like the god he was. If they were ever in trouble, he would rescue them, but he wouldn't need to, as they could just as easily make it themselves. They were a team with him at its helm, and with their power and his guidance, they would be able to accomplish anything and everything.

The only problem was luck; no matter what happened, it seemed like at some point, just as he was finally about to have it all, luck would swoop in and take most of it away. If his luck ever stopped being rotten, the Junkyard Dogs would be kings of the world. However, it seemed that every time he was about to permanently move up in the world, his crappy luck stepped in and said "No. You're staying down here." But he didn't mind too much; it just made him stronger and smarter. All he needed to do was just get past the next step, and he'd be on his way.

The meanest, toughest, nastiest, most loyal sunsabitches were not looking like that at all, instead sweating their asses off in their freshly-starched suits. The bastard spawn of Alex DeLarge and Frank Booth was dead, having driven his prized pink Lincoln Continental Mark VI headlong into a train. And luck was never really Mad Dog's problem.

What was Mad Dog's problem was that he was a narcissist with a superiority complex. Both of these issues drove him, but both of them held him back. Each influenced his life in myriad ways; his superiority complex led him to continually work hard in order to show everybody how much better than them he was, but when confronted with the reality that he might not be the best he refused to accept it, often fighting past the point of having a fighting chance, while his narcissism led him to preserve his life and health whenever possible, but made him unable to accept any slurs against his character. These characteristics invariably led him towards both riches and ruin. They were what ended up killing him.

The first time Mad Dog really felt power was when he was 15. He had run away from home when he was 13 and made his way across the country, eating and stealing wherever he could and barely living. That fateful day, he was in Nowhere, Kansas. He had come there on a train ride, one that came through on the same tracks where he died. Of course, it was a freight train; even if he had the money to pay for a ride, he wouldn't have done so. It was a matter of pride, just as much as leaping off a moving train was a matter of pain. When he got off, it was 10 o'clock at night, and some street toughs were in a fight. They appeared to be cats and dogs, duking it out for supremacy. For reasons that he could never explain, Mad Dog walked towards the fight. As he was approaching, a switchblade flew out from the brawl and landed in front of him. Just as he picked it up, a cat leaped towards him, claws out and ready to scratch him to ribbons. Instinctively, Mad Dog thrust the blade forward, and it sank straight into the cat's chest, piercing one of the cat's lungs. The cat, shocked and wheezing, sank to his knees. Mad Dog pulled the blade out, picked up a rock, and beat the cat's head in.

When he had finished, the other cats had fled, and the dogs were gathered around him. The smallest one walked up. "Is that my switchblade?" he asked in a question that wasn't really a question. Wordlessly, Mad Dog handed it to him.

This was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. The dog who owned the switchblade introduced himself as El Jefe. He turned out to be the leader of a gang he called the Junkyard Dogs, and he took Mad Dog under his wing. Under his tutelage, Mad Dog grew from a starving homeless kid to a well-honed street tough. He soon began to make friends in the gang, and proved himself to be pretty smart, putting in extra time to figure out who to con, who to rough up, who to pay off, who to work with, and who to destroy. This swiftly led him to near the top of the ranks, so that instead of just being El Jefe's protege, he became El Jefe's right-hand man.

Everything was wonderful until 1993. That was when a full-scale gang war broke out between the Junkyard Dogs and their main adversaries, the Katz. One night, Mad Dog headed up to check on El Jefe when he found a large, red and purple cat in El Jefe's room. El Jefe's body was sprawled on the bed, covered in blood from several scratch marks. Mad Dog took in the scene.

"Oh. Hello," said the cat, unsure of what would happen.

What did happen was Mad Dog attacked. He tore into the cat, biting and ripping at the cat's flesh. The cat had a hard time escaping, but once it did, it fled, leaving behind a thick trail of blood as it barely outran Mad Dog on its way to a waiting vehicle. Mad Dog gave chase, but couldn't catch up. However, at this point he was so angry that he instantly took over the gang, called a meeting of the Junkyard Dogs and outlined a plan to destroy the Katz once and for all.

This plan, surprising as it may seem, worked perfectly. Or, at least, almost perfectly; the cat who killed El Jefe got away. Apart from that, however, life was good for Mad Dog, as he now had everything he wanted: power, money, respect.

This should have been enough for Mad Dog. And, oddly enough, it was. But it wasn't.

You see, his superiority complex allowed him to believe that he had truly made it to the top. By becoming the crime king in a small Kansas town, he was able to convince himself that he had, indeed, "made it." His narcissism fueled this, allowing him to believe that he could conquer anything, anywhere, and so he never actually tried to do it. He just sat on his wealth and got richer, centralizing his power and certifying that he would never be displaced from his seat atop Nowhere's crime scene.

The trade-off for this, however, was that he would not be able to move out. After a while, he got too comfortable, and the thought of trying to gain more never occurred to him. Of course, gaining more wouldn't have helped; becoming more powerful wouldn't have helped; the long and short of it was that no matter how powerful or rich or well-respected he got, he would always have a nagging hole in his psyche telling him that something was missing. All consumption would have gotten him would have been a brief relief from that ache.

Still, even though he never acknowledged it, that ache was there. It was there up until early 2001. That was when he saw her. She was sitting in a bar with a cat, laughing and having a drink. The instant he saw her, his heart started beating faster, his eyes bulged out, and he began sweating profusely. Naturally, when he approached, she shot him down.

Mad Dog didn't give up. He kept going after Bunny. And, after a few weeks of promises, begging, and threats, she finally agreed to be his girl.

Mad Dog could never completely cage her spirit, however. Oh, he could put some dings in it, bend it some, but never break it. He could chain her up, he could beat her up, he could do all kinds of things to her, but she was always rebellious. Even when he got her to act broken in public, he could see that she was still alive inside.

Mad Dog didn't want this. His pleasure now was no longer derived from her beauty, or personality, or anything; it was derived from beating her down a little more. Every time he hurt her and she caved a little, he felt good. The hole in his psyche telling him he wasn't getting what he deserved closed up a little bit each time, even though it gaped open wider after the thrill left. But Mad Dog felt good about it.

Until one night, he thought he had broken her for good. Just a few sentences of cajoling were all he felt he'd need to make her give up and give in to him forever. But then she tricked him, chained him to a lamp. Luckily he had his goons Brian and James to take care of business for him, but after she betrayed him he knew that he'd have to go for a walk and come up with a good punishment for her.

When he came back, however, he caught her slipping out the fire escape with some runt of a dog he'd never seen before. He was of course going to hunt them both down and do horrible things to them, and so he leaped in his car and gave chase. Had he been thinking a little more clearly at the time, he might not have driven onto the train tracks, but as usual, Mad Dog thought he knew best.

Because Mad Dog thought he knew best, he was in a coffin and his gang was in uncomfortable suits.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 9:30 A.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

A limousine pulled up to the church, and Katz stepped out. He looked around approvingly; nobody who would know him was there. The only people there at the moment were some old women, presumably church members or volunteers, and some employees of the church. Katz slipped in and selected a seat near the back of the church, in the shadows. He was here to watch, not to participate.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 10:30 A.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

The minister wiped his brow. Setting up this funeral was turning out to be a real hassle. Of course, in this neighborhood, being able to set one up quickly was a necessity, but this one was odder than most. First with the gang rumors, then with the police wanting to be present, and that didn't even get into the fact that there wasn't even a wake held. He didn't even have his eulogy written! How was he supposed to immortalize the dog? Somehow he had to pay homage to his "accomplishments" even though the only ones anybody knew about were illegal, make him sound like a good man even though he was obviously an uncaring, self-absorbed, abusive, murderous bastard, and make sure that nobody disrupted the service.

That last part was the one that was truly worrying him. Over the past 15 years, the minister had seen and officiated more than his fair share of funerals; if necessary, he could just crib some worn out, lifeless lines that he had used to glaze over the failings of other souls when eulogizing him. Even the part where he had to come up with something to say about his "accomplishments" could be glossed over, perhaps by saying he was a "hard worker" who "loved his job"–oh, yes, that was a good one. But those who would disrupt the service...

These people wouldn't even necessarily be enemies of the deceased. In fact, he suspected they wouldn't be. He had seen the three friends who would be speaking after him. The first one was known throughout the neighborhood as a bully and a boor who looked up to Mr. Davies and had taken several of the dog's rotten traits as his own. The second was one the minister was less worried about; although he looked nervous and shaken, it seemed that he was a man of God, as he was constantly clutching a well-thumbed Bible. The third one, however, that third one...he was obviously inebriated, and the minister did not have much hope that he would be sober during the ceremony.

The minister's phone rang. He answered.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, it's Johnny. We'll be by in twenty minutes. Is everything set up?"

"Just about. You have your speeches prepared?"

"Yeah, we know what we're gonna say about him."

"Very well."

"Oh, and minister? Thank you. We really need this, to see him off."

"You're welcome. May God be with you."

"Goodbye."

The minister ended the call and returned his mind to business. Oh, the caterers had arrived! Good, now all that was left was for the hearse to pull up, and it should be here soon...

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 10:45 A.M., five blocks from the funeral**

"Man, this is some bullshit!" David complained.

"Yes, tell us of the bullshit," James replied sarcastically.

"I mean, motherfucker dishes out this much money for the funeral but can't get us a ride? In these suits? What a fucking cock!"

"I paid for the funeral," Jonathan said.

David promptly shut up. The five continued walking to the church in silence. After a few minutes and a couple of blocks passed, though, he began speaking again.

"Hey Reggie, you found out where the hell that bitch Bunny ran too? My knife's aching."

Reginald didn't reply.

"Hey don't shut me out, motherfucker! Tell me where the fuck you think she is!"

Reginald still didn't say anything.

"Actually, yeah," Jonathan said. "Haven't you discovered anything about her?"

Hearing this, David shot Jonathan a look that suggested he wanted to cut out Jonathan's internal organs. However, this spurred Reginald to speak.

"Well, kind of? From what I heard, the train she hopped was heading west, but it stopped in town. There, they hopped on another train, this one also headed west to Pueblo, Colorado. After that, though, they could have gone anywhere; my only lead is to Pueblo at the moment, though."

"Pueblo?" David questioned. "Well, motherfucker, let's go!"

"Well, I'm not quite sure where they are–" Reginald was rudely interrupted.

"Bullshit, you can search for clues in Pueblo, detective," David sneered. "I mean, it's not like you're shackled to Nowhere. Let's start the fucking search already."

"David's right," Jonathan noted. "Yeah, you two should start the hunt. I know of a car you can take for transportation; it's registered under a false name and won't be reported as stolen."

"Then it's settled," David said. "We're heading to Colofuckingrado tomorrow. For now, we've got a funeral to attend."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 10:55 A.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

Shirley paused just outside the entrance to the church. She looked around at the people attending the funeral. None of them were very familiar; some she'd seen as clients, and some had helped her out when she needed money, but nobody there reminded her of an enemy. She sighed, suspecting that things would only get worse as the day progressed, and entered the church.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 11:00 A.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

The reverend walked up to the podium with some papers in hand. He set them down, shuffled them, and looked out into the crowd. Although he wouldn't admit it, the papers were for show; they were just some random printouts he had lying around his office. As it turned out, there was no time for him to even scribble down any notes. He was going to have to ad-lib it. Fortunately, he had plenty of experience with funerals.

"Welcome, friends and family of the deceased," he began. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Marshall Davies, not to mourn his death. While it is always a tragedy when someone is taken from us so young, and it seems impossible to not dream of what might have been, it is important not to let what might have been overshadow what was.

"In this case, I am referring to the life of Marshall Davies. While it might be tempting to lionize him, to believe him to be a man without flaws, that would be wrong. Like all of us, he had his weaknesses. Attempting to portray him as a heroic savior would be a thankless task doomed to failure.

"So I'm not going to do that. Instead, I am going to talk about what made him so cherished among those who knew him.

"What Marshall Davies was best known for was his penetrating mind. He had an insight into the human condition, one that led him to work in service of humanity the best way he knew how. He understood people, and did his best to ensure their happiness. While some might argue that some of his ideas were misguided or odd, he believed he knew how to make people happier in their lives, and quite often proved he did.

"However, what he was not renowned for was his immense heart, which beat deep within his chest. The reason he was not known for his heart is simple: he kept it well hidden. If you saw him on the street, you might assume that the dog in front of you was a hardened, cynical, stoic beast. Nothing could be further from the truth. Marshall was a caring man who, even though he infrequently showed his softer side to strangers, it was well known to people close to him that he really cared. About everyone. Marshall was the kind of person who would greet you with a snarl–unless you looked like you needed help, at which point he would offer exactly that.

"Now I believe that I've said all I need to say–in fact, perhaps I've said all that I can say. I'd like to hand the podium over to people who knew him better."

The minister grabbed his papers and stepped back from the podium. As Jonathan came up, he left the pulpit, breathing a sigh of relief as he went. He had somehow made it through the eulogy without having a single good and honest thing to say about the man.

"Um, hello there," Jonathan began. "I'd like–I'd like to thank the minister for giving such a good introduction, and..."

Jonathan trailed off. He put his head down, sighed, and then looked up again.

"Marshall...Marshall was a good man. Marshall, he was our friend, he, he, he knew what he was doing, he cared about us, he–I'm sorry. I can't go on."

Jonathan exited the pulpit. Nobody applauded. Brian was the next one up.

"Marshall was a man of God. You may not know this, because he wasn't all public about it, not a Bible-thumper, but he gave me this Bible. He's the reason I believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ.

"He never talked about it, but he was really a man of faith. It played a pretty big part in his private life.

"I was never brought up to be a Christian. My parents never really cared about Jesus. But Marshall was the one who told me about Him, and he's the one who really taught me a lot about the Bible. Truth be told, if he wasn't my friend, I'd probably still be unsaved.

"And he was a good friend. He really cared about me–about all his friends. Like the minister said, he didn't seem like he cared, but he'd always be there for you if you needed him. He was really a kindhearted man, even if he never seemed to show it.

"In conclusion, I'd like to read a passage from the book of Mark. Specifically I would like to read the part where Jesus predicts his betrayal by one of his disciples. I would like to do this because it was Marshall's favorite passage; he was amazed by how Jesus could know someone would betray him and yet still have room in his heart for his betrayer."

Brian opened the Bible and began to read.

" _Jesus and his disciples went on to the villages around Caesarea Philippi. On the way he asked them, 'Who do people say I am?' They replied, 'Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.' 'But what about you?' he asked. 'Who do you say I am?' Peter answered, 'You are the Christ.' Jesus warned them not to tell anyone about him. He then began to teach them that the Son of Man must suffer many things and be rejected by the elders, chief priests and teachers of the law, and that he must be killed and after three days rise again. He spoke plainly about this, and Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But when Jesus turned and looked at his disciples, he rebuked Peter. 'Get behind me, Satan!' he said. 'You do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.' Then he called the crowd to him along with his disciples and said: 'If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me and for the gospel will save it. What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?'_ "

Upon finishing, Brian exhaled. "That passage is Mark 8:27–8:36. It seemed to be a guide for Marshall throughout his life. I hope that in Heaven, he has heard me, and that he understands. I hope he understands everything."

Brian departed the podium. The minister watched him go. Although he liked a good Bible verse as much as the next man, he was surprised by the choice. It seemed to have no relevance to either the proceedings or to the deceased. However, at the moment, that wasn't his concern. What was his concern was the fact that nobody seemed to be coming up to give another eulogy, even though he had been clearly told three of Marshall Davies friends were to speak. Realizing that nobody was coming, he stood up and walked to the podium. "Well," he started, "I suppose that's all. If you wish to–"

"WAIT!" a drunken voice slurred from the audience. Without looking, the minister knew who it was.

"I still gotter speak!" James cried. He stood up and stumbled his way to the podium. The minister stepped out of the way even though it was against his better judgement.

Once at the podium, James stood there, swaying. His head bobbed back and forth, and then he leaned up to the microphone as if to speak, but all that came out was a massive belch.

"Excu–pardon me," James slurred. "I've been–I've been–I've been around this world, seen a million girls..."

James trailed off.

"Allow me to start over.

"I am currently very drunk."

James paused and swayed for a few seconds more before continuing.

"I've been drinking since ten a.m. Not today, yesterday. Heh. I only stopped drinking because I had to eat. And sleep. Sleeping's important. But you can drink while you shit, am I right?"

The funeral guests were all silent.

"C'mon, can I get a 'HELLS YEAH!'?"

Nobody gave the requested response. James giggled to himself.

"So yeah I'm drunk. Fuck you, I don't like it when people die, and I don't like it when friends die.

"Mad Dog was a son of a bitch, you know.

"Did I tell you we were with him when he died? We were there that night. It's true.

"Oh, about Mad Dog being a son of a bitch, I mean that in the best way possible. We never met his mother; I don't think she lived around here...he never talked about her. Hell, maybe she was actually a bitch. You know who was really a bitch? Mad Dog's girlfriend, Bunny. I could never figure out what that motherfucker saw in her. She might have been why he died, actually. I mean, god, she fucked him over.

"It's a good thing she's not here right now, I just might rip her throat out.

"Anyway, we met back in, what was it, 1987? 1988? It was a while back, we were both teenagers. We were in the same...band, yeah, the same band. He sang and I played the theremin. You ever heard it? It goes weeeooooooooowaaaaooooooooooooeeeeeeeeewwwwuuuuuuuuuuuuaaaeeeooooo...

"It's a weird instrument. He met Bunny a couple years ago. She was trouble from the start but he fell for her. No matter how she put him down, or refused to accept him for who he was, he kept up with her. And she killed him for it. She cheated on him, probably.

"But he was an excellent singer, even if we never went anywhere. We were probably the greatest band you've never heard. You should have heard us, though. We were good.

"You ever notice how you never have a drinking problem except when you can't get a drink? Well I have a drinking problem. HEY PASTOR, GET ME SUMMA THAT WINE, WOULDYA? Heh, he didn't like that. Look at him now, all steamy faced and angry and red. Jesus, he's mad. Mad about Jesus. Like Brian. I swear, motherfucker needs to lighten up, always clutching that Bible...HEY NEWS FLASH DIPSHIT, MOST OF US DON'T NEED TO BE REMINDED DAILY THAT JESUS GAVE HIS LIFE. I mean, fuck me, that's what church is for, amiright? Hey, we're in one. YELL ABOUT JESUS NOW, ASSHOLE!

"Oh wait, he already did. So it was late Friday night, we had just come back from a night on the town, and Bunny was being a wet blanket, as had become the usual. No matter what Mad Dog did to try and get her to loosen up and settle down, she was just lifeless. Limp. Like she didn't want to be there. She probably didn't. Can't understand why, though. I mean, her boyfriend was, well, Mad Dog, who doesn't want to hang out with him?

"She had everything a girl could want. He treated her like royalty. Fuck, he was royalty, at least around here, but she never seemed to really understand that. The bitch never respected Mad Dog.

"So Bunny–you know what, fuck that, let's just call her 'The Bitch'. It's what she was.

"The Bitch was always messing with our mojo. I mean, she was hot, don't get me wrong, but The Bitch never quite fit in. I never understood what Mad Dog saw in her beyond her looks.

"And looks never really seemed to be the most important thing to Mad Dog. Sure he'd dated some lookers before her, but it didn't seem like that was what he was really looking for in a woman. Mad Dog just wanted someone who would understand him, who would know who he really was. I remember this one girl–man, she was a trip, a real trip. But one day she just up and disappeared. I guess Mad Dog couldn't trust her after all, seeing as she just...left...

"But The Bitch had a friend, let's call her...Kitty. That chick, I mean, _God_ , that chick. As much of a wet blanket as The Bitch usually was, Kitty was like ten times worse. I mean, fucking hell, she never liked us. Or respected us. She was always calling Mad Dog an evil monster, saying that dogs were evil and blah blah blah. Now that I think about it, Kitty might have had a thing for The Bitch. Ha! Wouldn't that be a laugh! They'd be like the most whitebread suburban riskless silently-dysfunctional mentally-broken stay-together-for-the-kids lesbian couple ever. Jesus.

"I dunno, maybe Kitty was behind it after all. She'd be nuts enough to hire some big motherfucker to kidnap her 'best friend.' That's the type of girl Kitty was–The Bitch was nuts in the 'I don't understand how people interact' kinda way. You know, the kind of person who has no clue what the real world is like, what real people are like. But Kitty? Kitty's the kind of girl where you'd hold a door open for her and she'd try to claw your eyes out. A real psycho murderess.

"Yeah, and I know this is off-topic, but I gotta say this place is a dump. I mean, yeah, I know it's the closest church, but God, you'd think that the money we're dishing out for this funeral would've bought a decent setting. Fucking hell.

"But so it was late that night and they had a lover's spat. Mad Dog went out to clear his head, to relax a bit, to try and calm down before he came back to talk some sense into The Bitch. Bad idea. While we were waiting for him to come back, this big burly motherfucker bursts in, beats the crap out of us, and grabs Kitty. He drags her away–fuck, drag might not be the right term. He was pulling her, but The Bitch was running with him. Not even trying to resist. Jesus Christ, I mean, Jesus Christ. I'm in the corner, dazed, unable to really move. If the motherfucker had paid a bit more attention, I woulda been knocked out. But there I am, and I see it. Mad Dog bursts into the room–I guess he heard the sounds of trouble–just in time to see them run out the fire escape. They drop to the ground, so he runs out of the room. Well, right about now I regain control of my legs, so I stand up and go after him, wobbly and dazed, and I stumble out into the street just as he comes roaring by in that beautiful pink Lincoln Continental.

"You know where he got that? Won it in a card game. It was a piece of crap when he got it, not a classic car, an old beater. I still remember, it was the last hand, and he was up by a ration of about 3:1. He got dealt a 2 of spades/7 of hearts and the guy across from him gets pocket rockets. So of course Mr. Double Aces puts it all in. And then the cards turn over and it's 777 and he's won it all. The dealer put the next two cards on the table, and I forget what they were, but that's how Mad Dog got that car. And then he spent the next four years restoring it. It was his baby, probably the thing he cared about...either most or second most. For some reason he loved The Bitch. The car would have given him more satisfaction. In fact, it probably did. Ha!

"So I get out of the building still woozy and almost get run into by Mad Dog in his car and he's revving it up full speed. So what does that bastard who stole The Bitch do? He throws Bunny into his car–a real junker, by the way, black van with tinted windows–and drives right onto the tracks. Of course Mad Dog gives chase, and he's just about to catch up and pit the motherfucker when the van turns off and Mad Dog's left staring straight at a locomotive.

"You all know the rest. Hell, the coffin pretty much gives away the ending.

"So yeah, I miss him. I miss him a lot.

"I guess that's all."

James dismounted. Nobody applauded, with everyone just sitting in stunned silence. After a minute or more had passed, the minister realized he should take the microphone.

"All right then," he said, with a shocked tone in his voice. "I suppose that's all. Thank you to Jonathan, Brian, and James for your _wonderful_ eulogies. The casket will be here for the next hour so that you all may pay your respects, after which the funeral procession will take it to the Nowhere Cemetery, where Marshall Davies will, as per his final requests, be interned."

As he left the podium and a line formed so that the gathering might pay their last respects, he noticed a figure slipping out through the church's front door. He couldn't blame it; after that trainwreck, he too wanted to leave. The worst part, he realized, was that the funeral had gone far better than he had expected.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 11:30 A.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

Katz slipped out of the church and into the backseat of his limousine. He picked up his phone and made a call.

"Yeah, who is this?" a surly voice responded.

"It's your boss."

The voice suddenly became much more deferential. "Oh, why hello, sir, Mr. Katz, sir! I'm surprised, sir, I wasn't at all expecting to receive a call from you, sir."

"Well, now you've been informed. You have my plans?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Katz sir, we were planning to strike tomorrow, sir."

"Good. I was just calling to make sure everything was in place."

"It is, sir. Shall I summarize–"

"No. I know what the plans are. Goodbye."

Katz hung up. A smile split his face. If the funeral was anything to go by, the Junkyard Dogs were disorganized, slovenly, stupid and weak. It was the perfect time to launch his attack.

Actually, now that he thought about it, today might be better; however, he was not going to go that direction now. He still had to pay his final respects, and he was going to do just that at the gravesite. For now, though, he had a funeral procession to be in.

"Driver?"

"Yes sir?"

"Make sure we're in the procession."

"But sir, you only hired me for–"

"I'll pay you triple."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:03 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

Reginald stood at the coffin. He felt useless. He'd never been good with his emotions, and he never knew what to say. He especially didn't know what to say to a dead guy he hated. He licked his lips.

"I, I, I–"

Reginald got an idea. He leaned in close and whispered to the corpse.

"You deserved it. You deserved to die this way. You know what you didn't deserve? You didn't deserve your life of bastardry, your riches. You didn't deserve any of the seconds of pleasure you got. And you especially didn't deserve her. Now she's gone, and you're dead, and I'm going to do my best to make sure it stays that way."

Reginald stood up and walked away.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:04 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

"Hey, I meant it, man," James said. He was loudly talking to the coffin.

"I meant every word I said up there. You know it was true."

James almost puked, but held it down.

"I love you, man. I'll–I'll go out and pour one out for you right now. I'll do that."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:06 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

Brian was now standing in front of the coffin. He got on his knees, bowed his head, and began speaking softly. Whether his words were directed to himself or the corpse was uncertain, but he was obviously deep in thought.

" _On the first day of the Feast of Unleavened Bread, the disciples came to Jesus and asked, 'Where do you want us to make preparations for you to eat the Passover? **'**_ _He replied, 'Go into the city to a certain man and tell him, 'The Teacher says: My appointed time is near. I am going to celebrate the Passover with my disciples at your house.''_ Michael 26:17–26:18."

He stood up.

"Goodbye, M.D. I'll see you up in heaven."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:07 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

David stepped up to the coffin. He immediately bent over and began whispering into the ear of the corpse.

"That bitch is gonna get what's coming to her, man. We're gonna go out and fuck her up. Fuck her up real good. I'll give her a good stabbing for you, she won't know what hit her. I'm just gonna go in, and out, and in, and out, and in, and out, and in, and out, and she's gonna bleed and scream. That bastard Johnny tried to throw us off–fuck always had eyes for your bitch–but Reggie was too smart for the motherfucker, he found out where she went. She's in Pueblo, yeah, in Colorado. It's going to be so fucking easy, I guarantee you, we'll just step in and she'll be a bloodstain on the fucking sidewalk. Bitch won't know what hit her, she'll be fucked up and then we'll get out. No problem. I swear we'll get that bitch back for you, Mad Dog. I fucking swear it."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:10 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church**

It was now Jonathan's turn. He stepped up to the coffin. Unlike most of his friends, he didn't bend over to whisper something secret. Instead, he stood there and talked normally.

"I've been doing the best that I can, Marshall," he said to the air. "I've taken the inheritance you gave me and, well, I'm gonna try and do good with it. I admit it's hard; but I'm trying. I might even be starting to get the hang of it.

"You know, it's now that I understand why you always seemed so angry. It's because you had a lot of pressure on you. I know because I've got that pressure on me now. It's not even been a week, and I can feel it. I'm not sure how you put up with it for so long. But I'm trying. Maybe it gets easier, maybe it doesn't. I don't know.

"But I'm trying."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:15 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church Parking Lot**

James was returning from the liquor store with a 40 oz. bottle of malt liquor when a limo drove up and stopped about two car lengths behind the hearse. He stopped and stared at it. Just as he was about to continue on, Jonathan ran up to him.

"Hey, James, move your ass. We've got to–what the fuck, man, did you seriously go to the liquor store?!"

"Yeah," James responded. "I gotta pour one out for–"

"FUCK YOU! We gotta put the body in the fucking hearse. Now move it!"

"Okay, just let me–"

Jonathan smacked the paper bag out of James' hand. "Shut up and get inside. Now."

James complied. As the two went in, a cat watched from behind the tinted windows of his limousine. This cat was not preoccupied with them, however; instead, he was wondering who the new limo belonged to.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:19 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church Parking Lot**

A coffin moved through the parking lot, borne by eight. Five of these were the new leaders of the Junkyard Dogs; one of them was the minister; and the last two were employees of the Nowhere Cemetery.

Katz watched this procession from his limo with uninterested eyes. He was already starting to regret having decided to stay; while the funeral service itself had provided him with entertainment and information, he was sure that the actual burial would bring no such further escapades, especially since he would be watching from afar. He couldn't risk attending it; after all, someone might recognize him. No, it was best not to tip his hand. Katz made a split-second decision.

"Driver," he commanded his chauffeur, "take me somewhere else for a couple of hours."

"Where to, sir?" his chauffeur politely asked.

"Oh, I don't know...what's the best restaurant in the city?"

"That would be Ciao Bella. It's an Italian restaurant famed for their salmon penne. Shall I take you there, sir?"

"I do enjoy a good fish. Yes, please. Take me there, and take me to the cemetery at, oh, 2:30. I believe I will have a long lunch."

As the driver pulled away, Katz decided to call his second-in-command. They would lunch and tighten up their plan of attack. Then he would come to the graveyard to dance on Mad Dog's grave.

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 12:20 P.M., Nowhere Disciples of Christ Church Parking Lot**

As the coffin was loaded into the hearse, Jonathan noticed a limo pulling out of the parking lot. He shook his head, amazed at the disrespect someone would show Mad Dog. He didn't comment, however, instead heading for the new limo, freshly arrived. He had rented it so that they could travel in the procession in style.

He opened the door and gestured for the others to come in. He smiled inwardly as he saw their jaws drop in amazement. Quickly, they clambered in, and Jonathan entered last, shutting the door behind him.

"HOLY FUCK YOU GOT US A LIMO?!" David screamed as soon as the door had shut. Although none of the other gang members were quite as blatant about their amazement, Jonathan could tell that David had just said what they were all thinking.

"Yes," he replied. "We're giving Mad Dog a proper send-off, aren't we? He'd want us to travel in style."

"All right!" James cheered. "Riding in a limo!"

"Anyway, let's get down to business," Jonathan continued. "Reginald, you've been keeping up with your analysis, right? Where are we getting the most money from, and who's shorting us?"

Reginald cleared his throat and shook his head to clear cobwebs from his mind. "Okay. Well, on the 8th St./Park Ave. block we've been pulling in drug money pretty good, but I got a tip from our informant in the police department that they'll be sending someone to crack down on us. We might want to watch out for that. However, on 2nd and Vine we've been selling out; we might want to move more product over there. As for us being shorted, bad news. There have been about six who are shorting us, and if we don't crack down, more will do so. These businesses are Reiko's Sushi, Jasmine's Salon, Mike's Automotive, Melvin's Hardware, the A-1 Steakhouse, and the doughnut shop over on Sunset. We might want to start with the doughnut shop; we hit there, it'll send a message to everyone that we're not afraid of the cops. But we'd have to go in the back way and beat the crap out of the manager–we can't just waltz in the front door. We can just step in with the others; hopefully they immediately fall in line, but if not, we'll have to use a little muscle to get what we need."

Jonathan grinned. He was surprised that Reginald had such a clear grasp on things, but it made sense that the accountant was so high up after hearing this diatribe. He turned to Brian. "Okay, Brian," he said, "Who are our biggest enemies?"

"Well, there's a, there's a, well, nobody apparently," he said.

"What," was Jonathan's flat reply.

"There's–he didn't actually have a list of enemies, or at least not a current one. The only thing we found in his files was a list of enemies with all the names crossed out."

"Well who was on that list?" Jonathan asked.

"Katz, Katz gang, that one red cat, Richard, Sam, George, Bill, Denis, Lewis, Louis, Jeff, Kitty, Ron, and Gabriel."

Jonathan paused to process this. "I have never heard of ANY of those people. Except the Katz gang, and well, we kicked them out like ten years ago."

Jonathan thought for a moment. "Okay, here's what we do. Reginald, David, you two set out tonight. Drive all night, taking shifts. Spend the morning driving around Pueblo, looking for clues, then book a hotel room and spend that night there if you can't figure out where Bunny went. Here's a couple of stolen credit cards." He handed two to Reginald and two to David. "Tomorrow, the rest of us go in, and we shake 'em all down. We should be done by mid-afternoon, early evening at the latest. If nothing else arises, I'm going to take Brian and James out to eat somewhere. We deserve to get back to living well."

* * *

 **Wednesday, October 23, 2:30 P.M., Nowhere Cemetery**

Katz's limousine pulled into the parking lot of Nowhere's Cemetery. Katz stepped out.

"Wait here," he instructed the driver. "I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes."

Katz walked into the graveyard and looked around. He knew that there would be someone who could direct him to the gravesite. Barring that, the dirt should still be fresh, even if it wasn't an ideal way to find a grave.

"HEY!" he yelled, flagging down a man walking in the graveyard. The man came over to him. "Do you know where Marshall Davies' grave is?"

The man hitched a thumb over his shoulder. "Sure," he said. "Just look for the fresh dirt."

The man moved on, and Katz stared daggers at his receding back. Had they not been in a public place, Katz would have done something quite horrid to the man.

"Oh well," Katz muttered to himself. "At least he gave me a general direction."

Katz headed in the direction indicated. He didn't have to go far, however, as he soon came upon Brian, kneeling on the grave and praying.

"Ugh," Katz muttered. "This guy. Oh well, at least he can't stay long. I'll just wait behind one of these graves."

Katz knelt down before a large, ornate headstone with an angel statuette perched on top of it and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Fifteen minutes passed, and Brian was still there. Katz sighed and decided to take matters into his own hands. He sat and thought for a moment, and soon came up with a plan. He stood up and walked up behind Brian. Brian didn't notice, so he put his hand on Brian's shoulder.

"Hello," he said. Brian started. "I'm–Officer Jimmy Dove, FBI."

"Um, uh, hello, uh–" Brian began.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?"

"Uh, um, no?"

"Really? You don't know what Mr. Davies did?"

"Um, uh–"

"Actually, I believe you referred to him as Mad Dog. So did we, to be honest. Of course, we never were able to pin anything on him."

"I, um–"

"I saw your performance at the funeral. Are you truly a man of God?"

"Um, I–yes. My soul belongs to Jesus."

"Good. Then you should know that if you continue to sin without remorse, you are not a Christian at all, yes?"

"Um, uh, I–"

"Tell me, have you sinned?"

"Um, well, everyone has, except–"

"Have you hurt people?"

"Um, I–"

"Are you remorseful in the slightest?"

"I–I–YESSS!" Brian screamed to the heavens. He broke down crying.

"You've been questioning whether you've been doing the right thing, haven't you?"

The only response Katz got was sobs.

"Listen, think about it. You can do some good for once. You can get out of this. But you'll need to let us help you."

Brian nodded.

"Here." Katz pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled a phone number down on it. "If you decide you want to help, call this number."

Katz turned and walked away, leaving Brian crying at Mad Dog's grave.


	9. Out Ta Get Me

Once again, there she was, walking down the hall with bloodstains on the floors. Shirley sighed inwardly; she'd been through this dream many times before. Yesterday's funeral had revealed nothing that made the dream any clearer.

There it was once again, the beat without a melody. It was haunting, even though it was purely a rhythmic pattern. Despite this, more than anything, it was starting to annoy her now; hearing it four nights in a row will do that to you.

And there she was at the door. As usual, it was sticky, but with what? Shirley looked closer. It wasn't blood; there were no red stains on the doorknob. Something else was making it sticky.

And once again she only saw scattered images behind the door. And a voice. And panic gripped her.

She ran, mind both panicking and completely calm. This was because one half of her brain–the half that had remained partway conscious through the dream, observed the repetitiveness of it–knew she would get away. But the other half–the dream half–was running, could feel the panic needed to give the adrenaline burst that was needed to escape.

So she ran. She escaped. She awoke.

And then Shirley, annoyed that she couldn't figure out what was going on, rolled over and went back to sleep.


	10. Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

Brian was sitting on the toilet in the bathroom of the apartment he and James shared. His hands were clasped in front of him in prayer as he tried to decide what to do. However, reception must have been spotty in the bathroom, as God was saying nothing back to him.

Brian sighed and got up. He went over to the sink and splashed some water on his face. _What to do, what to do,_ he pondered. He looked in the cracked mirror, hoping for solutions, but none were forthcoming.

He sighed and looked to the ceiling. He didn't like what he was about to do, and even as his rational mind told him it was the right thing, he had a feeling in his gut telling him not to go through with it.

He had to, though. He'd spent the day with James, and sometimes Jonathan, forcing people to hand over "insurance payments." And after each store, he felt horrible and guilty. And that brought him to now, when very soon he would get in a car with them and go to eat a delicious dinner bought with their ill-gotten gains. The very thought made him sick, as did the memories of all that he had done.

The worst part, he thought, was that he could put up with it when there seemed to be no way out. When it seemed like this had become his life, and an attempt to leave his criminal roots would lead to his death. But then that cat had made him an offer, a way out, in the graveyard. And he was going to take it. He was going to betray his friends.

Brian sighed. He picked up his phone and dialed.

* * *

Katz's phone rang. He picked it up on the fourth sounding.

"Hello?" he responded.

"Yes, it's uh, it's Brian, I'm uh–I talked to an officer yesterday, Mr. Jimmy Dove?"

"Oh, yes, hello, Brian. Have you come to a decision?"

"Um, I–okay, look. Me, James, and Johnny–Johnny's the gang leader, you know–well, we'll be eating dinner together. At Ciao Bella. And we'll probably be discussing work. If, you know, if you want to–send somebody to spy."

"Oh, good to know, Brian. And for the record, this better not be a double-cross. We have recorded this message, and if one of our agents turns up injured, or dead, then, well..."

"It's not a double-cross, I swear! I don't know what we'll be saying, I just know we'll be there! Look, I just, I just feel really guilty, and I, I, I need to, to get out? Like you promised?"

"Very well, Brian. Have a nice dinner."

Katz hung up and set down the phone. A smile crossed his face.

* * *

A blue Honda Accord pulled out of a Burger King drive-thru. Reginald sighed as the smell of burgers and fries filled the car. He was hungry, but he wasn't going to eat while driving. That's how accidents happen. David had no such qualms, reaching in and pulling out a burger and his fries. He began chowing down as the car headed towards the highway, ready to go to the Pueblo Holiday Inn.

It had been a long day. Nobody had offered any information on the whereabouts of Bunny, or, for that matter, Kitty. David took another huge bite of his burger and washed it down with a sip of Sprite.

As they approached the highway, David began lazily looking at their surroundings. Suddenly, his eyes popped. He looked closer.

"Hey man, that's Bunny!" he said. Reginald ignored him.

"No, no, back there! That's Bunny! She's RIGHT HERE! MOTHERFUCKER TURN AROUND!"

* * *

Soft piano music filtered through the air. The man at the piano was smiling as his fingers tiptoed over the keys gently. He was clothed in a snazzy black tuxedo, and the tables near him were all enjoying the ambiance he provided.

A table far away, near the window, was not happy. This group, composed of three dogs, were plainly not fans of soft piano. For that matter, they weren't fans of dressing up; everyone else in the building was wearing, at the very least, a suit jacket, so this trio with their leather jackets stuck out from the crowd.

One of them seemed to be rather nervous, as he glanced at the front door every time somebody walked in. The other two, though, were deep in conversation, somewhat ignoring him. They were talking business at the moment, discussing profits, losses, surpluses, and distribution routes. If you didn't listen too closely, what little you picked up would suggest to you that they were just businessmen who also happened to be bikers.

The door opened, and another man walked in. He was short, old, and balding, with tufts of white hair forming a ring around his head. After a minute of conversation with the maitre d', the man was seated at a table right next to the three dogs.

Brian saw this happen and watched it with dinner-plate eyes. Once the man was seated, he was barely able to tear his gaze away. He did manage to, though, and forced himself to listen to the conversation and figure out what was going on. Unfortunately for his plans, the topic of conversation had shifted. James and Jonathan were now talking about cars.

"...yeah, but for my money, I say get a Jaguar," Jonathan said. "Those are always good-looking cars."

"Yeah, but performance," James replied. "They're never worth the money you spend in terms of speed, or power, or–well, it's not top of the line in anything but looks!"

"When do we ever need that shit?" Jonathan asked. "I mean, honestly, we're not pulling bank heists or anything. We never need to make a quick getaway and break all the traffic laws. Cars are used for two things, mainly: transportation and image. And Jaguars cut a great figure."

"But people who know about cars know that Jaguars aren't worth it!" James hotly replied. "I mean, if you know anything about cars, you know that, looks aside, they're a rip!"

"But most people don't, and that's the important thing to remember," Jonathan said calmly. "Honestly, why buy something that looks like crap but runs well when only one person out of a hundred, if that, is going to recognize how good it is? You go with something that looks nice, even if it's not the best performance."

"You're not looking at the bigger picture, though," James argued. "I mean, you need that performance for when you–for when you need it," he finished lamely.

"Except I don't need it," Jonathan said. "What I need is to cut a good figure, let everyone know that yeah, we're the big boys. That's why you want to roll with something that looks good. I mean, hell, millionaires ride around in limos. You ever see one of those things win a drag race? No! So why do they use them? Because it flips a big middle finger to the world, it says 'hey, I'm rich, fuck you.' That's what a limo does, that's what a Jaguar does. And it sends a message that I can afford the lifestyle that is implied to come with owning a Jaguar. That's the important part–the message sent, not the car itself. I mean, fuck, a piece of crap that gets you where you're going is just as good a mode of transportation as the fastest race car on the planet, because who the hell wants to deal with the cops? Nobody! Both are gonna get there at about the same time. The only difference is the message sent; in one case, it's 'I can only afford this piece of crap' and in one case it's 'fuck you, I have a race car.' There's no appreciable difference other than 'hey look what I can afford'. And that's why you go with a Jaguar."

Brian noticed the old man get up and head for the bathroom. He waited ten seconds as James droned on with his counterpoint before getting up himself.

"...and I understand image, but you–hey, where the fuck are you going, Brian?"

Brian mustered up his courage. "I'm taking a shit, what's it to ya?"

"Ooh, Brian's growing some testicles! Finally broken out of Jesustown, God boy?" James taunted.

Brian blushed deeply.

"Aw, go on, take your shit," James told him. Brian continued walking. "So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. You should never compromise performance for image. I mean..."

* * *

David took off his seat belt and was about to attempt to exit the car when Reginald thrust his arm out to stop him.

"What the–Johnny put you up to this, didn't he!"

Reginald didn't respond. He instead turned onto the highway.

"Johnny, that motherfucker, I'll–!"

Reginald depressed the gas pedal, accelerating as fast as he could.

"Wait a minute. He couldn't do anything if we got her."

Reginald said nothing.

"IT'S YOU! YOU FUCK, YOU GODDAMN FUCK!"

In a swift motion, David used his left arm to slap the arm Reginald was using to hold him back away. With his right hand, he grabbed his knife and swung it in a solid arc at Reginald's head. Reginald had barely any time to react; his only reaction was instinctual, as the muscles in his left arm tightened. This tightening lead to him pulling on the steering wheel, sending the car into a sharp left turn.

Unfortunately for Reginald, this turn didn't influence David's motion at all, as by the time it had started, the knife had already made contact. It sunk into Reginald's eyeball until the organ popped like a grape. This was the last thing he ever felt.

He didn't die from the knife sinking into his brain, however. What he died from was the car accident that ensued less than a second after he turned the car. The car drove perpendicularly into the oncoming lane and was hit from the right side by a tractor-trailer. It flipped several times, bouncing down the road until it finally skidded off into a ditch on the side. Both Reginald and David were killed instantaneously.

* * *

Brian entered the bathroom. He saw the old man finishing up at a stall.

"Hey," he said. The old man ignored him.

"So, I know that's not what you wanted, but I swear, they were talking business earlier." The old man turned to look at him, confusion on his face. "Look, I know you're–don't leave!"

The man stopped halfway to the door. Brian rushed over to stand in front of him. "Look," he said, "I know this hasn't turned out how you would've liked. But I swear, they're gonna talk about stuff, I swear. I'm on the level. I didn't tip them off."

The man, disturbed, made a move to push past him. Brian stepped in his way again.

"Please," he pleaded. "Please, just put in a good word for me. I swear, I'll try to get them talking again. I know you can get something on them, and I really want to get out of this life. Just, just please, please stay and–"

Brain stopped dead as the unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast reverberated through the restaurant. It was followed, almost paralleled, by a second. As the next few seconds ticked by, another shot was fired. Then, a second later, a fourth. Brian and the old man stood in the bathroom, white-faced and frozen. It took ten seconds for the spell to crack, but as soon as it did, the two went in completely different directions–the old man rushing to a bathroom stall to hide and perhaps clean his freshly-soiled pants, and Brian out of the bathroom to figure out what was going on.

As soon as Brian exited, a ghastly sight met his eyes. There were James and Jonathan, lying sprawled on their chairs. James' chest was split open, having received two discharges of shells. His arm was spread across it, partially blasted by the gunshots as well, and his handgun was almost drawn. Jonathan, meanwhile, had his head split wide open and a murky wound in his chest. Fleeing the restaurant were two black-clad figures.

Brian's brain stalled, trying to process this. Without regard for everyone else in the restaurant and what they might hear, he pulled out his cell phone and called Officer Dove.

* * *

Katz's phone began ringing. He smiled. He was expecting a call from his assassins.

"Hello, did you–"

"Officer Dove? Things have gone horribly, horribly wrong! We were–"

"Brian. Is that you?" Katz interrupted. The gears in his head spun, trying to figure out how the Bible-clutching buffoon had survived.

"Yes, officer, but you've got to listen! Some guys, they burst in, they shot Johnny and James! I think it was a mob hit, and well, I don't–"

"Brian," Katz smoothly replied.

"Dove, listen, you–"

"Brian, you said you wanted a way out?"

"Officer, listen, they–"

"You have a way out now."

"Officer Dove, please listen, they, they killed, there–"

"You can leave, Brian."

"There's blood, there's–"

"Goodbye, Brian. I would get out of the restaurant before they come back. Or the cops arrive. Whichever happens first."

"But Officer, they, they, Jonathan, and James, and–"

Katz hung up on the whimpering dog. _Idiot_ , he thought to himself.

* * *

Brian looked at his phone, shocked. He then realized what he would have to do. He took the FBI agent's advice and ran.


	11. Mr Brownstone

Shirley lay in bed, unable to sleep. She'd been having the same dream for three weeks straight, now. She still didn't know what it meant.

Oh, she'd seen the papers, with their artfully gory photographs of those two dead dogs on their front pages. The Nowhere News had even put out a special edition. And she'd heard the rumors that this was all part of the criminal underground, which was going though a sea change in Nowhere. And she'd consulted her crystal ball, her tea leaves, all of the tools at her disposal. But none of them gave her any answers. All that she could get was that there was danger coming closer. The cause of the danger, of her bad dreams, of the constant worry...that was never revealed. All that she could deduce was that a criminal, inextricably linked to her past, was returning to her life. But none of it made sense. She couldn't understand how she would be linked to a criminal; she didn't help wrongdoers, she cursed them. Admittedly, some might call her business less than legitimate, but those were people who didn't understand or believe in the supernatural. One of the things she prided herself on was being honest, even if others sometimes weren't.

So why now? Why here? And most of all, why her?

No answers came to Shirley, no matter how long she tossed and turned. What did come eventually, though, was sleep.

 _Bloodstains._

 _A pounding beat._

 _Doorknob sticky. It turned._

 _Legs, legs, many legs._

 _A voice, dry and emotionless._

 _Run. Have to run. Have to run._

 _Escape must escape._

 _Run._


	12. Dirty Business

"Oh, how good it is to be home!" Muriel declared, as she, her husband, and her dog walked through the front door of their farmhouse. Courage, clad in a douli, grinned in agreement. They had been away for two weeks, on a vacation to China. The vacation had been very relaxing, apart from a run in with an evil empress, but Courage was glad to be home. After all, the finest cuisine in Beijing couldn't really compare to a home-cooked meal made by Muriel.

"Blah blah blah," Eustace replied. He carried their suitcases upstairs while Muriel headed to the kitchen. Courage happily followed her in, but sneezed once he got inside.

"Oh my," said Muriel. It seemed that two weeks away had allowed quite a lot of dust to accumulate in the kitchen. "Come on, Courage, let's sweep up."

Courage whined but grabbed a broom while Muriel grabbed a duster. After about five minutes of work, the kitchen was reasonably clean again. Muriel looked at it. "Good job, Courage," she told the dog. "I'll have dinner ready in no time. Why don't you see what Eustace is up to?"

Courage took her suggestion and wandered out to the living room, where Eustace was watching TV. It was some show about three weirdos in a cul-de-sac ripping a bunch of kids off. Eustace laughed at the misery of a child with a gigantic retainer.

Soon, though, dinner was ready, and they all dug in. As usual, it was delicious, if smaller than usual due to them having just returned. After finishing up, Eustace headed to the living room and resumed watching television, while Muriel sat in her rocking chair, knitting. Courage lay in her lap until bedtime, at which point he headed off to sleep in the kitchen.

* * *

The next day, Courage woke up with the sunrise. He felt good, so he went outside and started sniffing around. Much to his surprise and relief, nothing had changed on the farm. This was unusual, as it seemed to him that every week or so, he was dragged into another madcap race to save his owners, or the farm, or both, from some sort of monster.

Still, if Courage had learned one thing from his adventures, it was to live each day as it came. After all, there was no sense in worrying about tomorrow when it could hold either a new friend or a villain. Case in point: when Bigfoot came to visit. Courage thought that Bigfoot was an evil force, fixing to hurt his Muriel, but as it turned out, Bigfoot was just a kid who liked food fights and Carmen Miranda.

Of course, not everyone was like that. That weird kid whom they had most recently seen in China, the scientist. Now he was a nut. And a dangerous one, too, with his fixation on turning Courage into something else, or with making better versions of Courage.

Still, Di Lung was, for all Courage knew, in China. Bigfoot was likewise probably living with his mother. And today, Muriel was making her wonderful buttermilk pancakes for breakfast–Courage could smell them from the kitchen. He smiled. Today was looking like a good day.

* * *

After breakfast, Muriel went out to work in her garden while Eustace worked on his truck in the front yard. Courage, meanwhile, napped by his water bowl. He was having a good dream when a sense of doom suddenly awoke him.

Courage had had this sense many times before. Each time, it signaled that something was about to attack his owners and possibly destroy his happy life. It was not always correct; however, whenever it came he obeyed it. This is because, however off it sometimes was, when it was right it allowed him to better prepare to fight off marauders who might hurt Muriel, and so Courage had learned to take it very seriously.

Courage looked out into the backyard. There, he saw Muriel standing up and talking to two men. Quickly, Courage got up and squirmed through the dog door. Before he could get near the men, though, they grabbed Muriel and started running with her. Courage gave chase, but the men threw her into the back of a black van parked on the edge of the property and then jumped into the front seats. Without even pausing to buckle their seat belts, they took off.

Courage gave chase, of course. First on foot, then on a tricycle, then on a motorcycle–each vehicle seemingly appearing out of nowhere. However, the van was too fast for him, as it quickly outpaced him and then widened its lead as it entered the main part of Nowhere. After the motorcycle hit a bump, sending Courage tumbling, all the dog could do was watch the van's rear bumper recede in the distance and howl.

Muriel was gone.


	13. See No Evil

After the crash, Courage ran back to the farmhouse. He quickly spotted Eustace underneath his truck. Courage ran over to him and began making noises and pointing in the direction the kidnappers had gone.

"Ouch!" Eustace cried as he involuntarily sat up and bonked his head against the bottom of his truck. He crawled out from beneath it. "What do you want, stupid dog?"

Courage shapeshifted into three shapes–first a fanged monster, then a little old lady, then a van. Eustace just stared at him, puzzled.

"Get away from me," he muttered, and returned to work on his truck. Courage could see he'd get no help here, so he headed inside. He knew that there was somebody else who might be able to give him the answers he craved.

* * *

"Oh, it's you," the computer said. "What do you want, you twit?"

"Kidnappers, kidnappers! Search!" said Courage as he typed it in.

"Oh, well you could always check a penitentiary..." said the computer.

"No, no! For Muriel! Muriel's been kidnapped!" Courage replied.

"Oh, well that's different. You know, I know of people who help with such cases," the computer replied.

"Who?! Who?!" Courage yelped.

"Well, they're a very secret team," the computer said.

"Tell me!" Courage begged.

"You can find them at a certain number..." the computer taunted.

"Where?!" Courage howled.

"911."

Courage stared at the computer angrily.

"You twit."

* * *

Courage paced around the living room. No matter what he did, he couldn't figure out what to do. He had no leads, no traces, and no idea where Muriel might be. All he knew was that the van had headed east to Nowhere, but it could have gone in any direction from there. The kidnappers could be taking Muriel to Topeka, Omaha, Oklahoma City, even St. Louis! And the worst part was, the longer it took to figure out where she might be, the farther she could be taken.

As much as he hated to admit it, the computer might have had the best idea when it came to calling the cops. While they were quite often a bastion of incompetence (his encounters with Schwick and Basil came readily to mind), he had to admit that they might be of some use, especially as in this case it was an actual crime, rather than a monster attack.

Mind made up, he headed to the phone in the kitchen. When somebody picked up, he howled and babbled into the phone. When he finally stopped explaining, he listened for a response.

"Sir, prank calling 911 is a crime in this jurisdiction. You are lucky that we aren't sending someone out to arrest you. If you ever do this again, you _will_ be arrested, and you _will_ be spending time in jail. Good bye."

The woman on the other end hung up, and Courage stared at the phone before howling in pain and frustration.

"Hey! Shut up, you stupid dog!" Eustace called from the living room.

Courage hung up the phone and sat down. Just then, an idea occurred to him. There was still one person he knew who might be of some help.

* * *

Soon enough, Courage found himself outside a shack about a mile away from the edge of Nowhere. This shack looked like an abandoned horse-drawn carriage. Outside was a makeshift firepit with a kettle hanging over where the fire would be. Courage shivered, even though it wasn't cold out, and gathered up his bravery to knock. Before he could, though, the door swung open. Shirley stepped out and looked at him.

"The stupid one?"

Courage shook his head and babbled.

"His wife?"

Courage responded in the affirmative.

"Well what is it you want me to do?"

Courage babbled. Shirley nodded once he had finished.

"Very well. I will look for your Muriel. But I warn you, you may not like what you see."

Courage nodded.

"Also it's going to cost you."

Courage whined, but reached into his pocket. He pulled out a quarter, two nickels, a penny, a yo-yo, and some pocket lint and handed his stash over to Shirley. She looked at it distastefully, then beckoned towards Courage to offer more. Courage whined and shrugged. Shirley rolled her eyes in response, and then turned to go back into her home–a reaction which led to Courage whining and begging her to wait. When Shirley complied, he ran off, heading back to the farm. Once there, he dove into the ground and dug like he was possessed. After digging for a few minutes but quite some depth–perhaps thirty feet–he unearthed a gigantic diamond, larger than his head. Once he had found it, he popped out of the ground and ran back to Shirley, carrying it. He presented it to her, at which point Shirley took out a jeweler's loupe and examined it. After a few seconds, she nodded.

"Yes, this is acceptable," she proclaimed.

"Yay!" Courage cheered.

Opening the door, Shirley intoned "Please, won't you come in?"

Courage did as commanded. He had a seat at Shirley's small table as she rummaged around. Soon enough, Shirley brought out her crystal ball.

"Muriel. She is the fat one, yes?"

Courage nodded even though he was offended.

"Very well. I will try and find her. But do not be upset if this does not work."

So saying, Shirley began to search for her using her crystal ball. Soon, an image started to form, but seconds later, it clouded over. Courage, confused, looked up, only to find Shirley's eyes had shut and her body had become as stiff as a board.


	14. Paradise City

_Shirley began walking down the hall, a faint smile on her face. The plastic bag in her hand jostled slightly, nudging against her thigh with each step. Today had been a good day. And this little town wasn't so bad. Aptly named, though. "Nowhere," in the middle of nowhere._

 _And this place was pretty nice, all things considered. It was cheap, of course, but the beds were comfortable and it had cable. All in all, it seemed like a decent place to stay. A very nice roadside hotel, very much worth the $10 they had spent on the room._

 _Suddenly, her foot felt wet. She looked down. It was perched in a red stain, an almost bloodlike red stain. As she looked down the dimly-lit hallway, she realized that there were quite a lot of these stains. Most of them looked fresh._

 _Fear entered her mind at this, although she tried to shrug it off. After all, it might not be blood. It might be thick fruit punch, or strawberry smoothie, or even ketchup._

 _There was only one way to find out. She bent down and sniffed at the stain. The unmistakable scent of blood filled her nostrils, and she realized something was very wrong._

 _Against her better judgement, she continued down the hall. Her room was only a little bit away. And it could be that she didn't have to worry. The blood could have come from somewhere else. Maybe someone had a chainsaw accident._

 _At this justification, she snarled at herself. Nobody had had a chainsaw accident. In a place like this, at a time like this, this much blood was never accidental._

 _The scary part, she realized, was that this wasn't even that much blood. There were plenty of stains, yes, but they seemed to each comprise very little blood. It was almost as if someone had staggered down the hall, bleeding in spurts._

 _The trail ended at her door. Shirley was afraid to open it, but she gripped the doorknob. It was sticky._

 _Shirley instinctively yanked her hand away. She then took a closer look and noticed that the doorknob wasn't red. It seemed as if the stickiness wasn't from blood._

 _Against her better judgement, she licked her hand. It was sweet. Sugary. Almost as if the last person to touch the doorknob had been eating some sort of dessert._

 _Shirley reached back towards the doorknob. This time, she turned it after she grabbed it. The door swung open and inside..._

 _...was her husband. Bloody. Dead._


	15. Watching the Detectives

Shirley's eyes snapped open. She looked around the room until finally her gaze settled on Courage.

"Out," she said.

Courage looked at her stupefied. Shirley came up behind him and began to push him out. "Get out!" she proclaimed. Courage began to babble in protest, but Shirley was having none of it. "Out!" she cried, as she shoved him out the entrance to her home. Courage landed in a heap next to her firepit.

Courage moaned as he got up. This is the end, he thought. He had no more solutions, no more ideas, no more clever tricks. Muriel was gone, and he didn't know where she was, or even where she might be.

 _No,_ he thought. _No, if there's one thing that's allowed me to survive for so long, to keep my family safe, that's tenacity. It's time to be tenacious._

A look of determination flashed in Courage's eyes. He brushed the dirt off of himself and headed on down the road. He wasn't headed for the farmhouse, however. If he was going to find Muriel, the search would start in Nowhere.

* * *

Courage entered the small Kansas town on four legs. Although this would have looked odd to all who knew him, there was a good reason for this. Every twenty paces or so, he would lower his nose to the ground and take a whiff, hoping to catch Muriel's scent. This went double for alleyways–quite often, even if there was no scent at the entrance, Courage would wander down the alleyway, sniffing all the way, in the hope that this might provide a clue to her whereabouts.

Courage continued on this route down the main drag of Nowhere, searching up and down the sidewalk on the south side of the street. His sniffing led him to take his eyes off what was ahead, however, and at one point he bumped into someone's leg. It was a cat in sunglasses, who leaned down and snarled at him. Shocked, Courage jumped back, quivering. It was only then that he noticed the cat was with a man in sunglasses.

"Hey, dog. What do you think you're doing?" the cat angrily inquired as it took a step towards Courage. The man put a hand on the cat's shoulder.

"Now, Donald, relax," the man said. "It's just a dog. He don't know nothing."

"Ah, whadda you know, Walter? He don't respect us none," said the cat angrily.

Courage babbled, trying to show that he was sorry.

"There, see, Donald? He respects us. C'mon, we're late," Walter said.

Donald snarled but allowed his partner to lead him away. As they left, he cast a look back at Courage. "You got _lucky_ ," he said menacingly.

Courage moved on, still looking for Muriel. As he hunted, he thought to himself that the man and the cat had seemed strangely familiar. However, he couldn't quite place what it was. Were they part of his rogues gallery? He didn't think so. At least the cat wasn't. The man...who was that man? Now that he thought about it, it was the man that was disturbing him. But why? Thinking back to Muriel's kidnapping...was the man involved? He hadn't gotten close enough to discern any features, or get a good bearing on the height of the kidnappers. But there was something about the man that reminded him of Muriel and the kidnapping.

As Courage wandered down the street, he continued to try and place what he smelled in the back of his mind. Soon enough, he came to a back alley and sniffed inside of it. Suddenly, a door opened on one of the adjoining buildings and a scruffy man came out. He had on a blue shirt and black apron with a Waffle House nametag affixed, and he was carrying a bag of trash. The man carried the bag over to the dumpster, dropped it in, and then went back inside. Courage watched this scene, perturbed, but it seemed important to him.

However, Courage couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. He sat down in the alleyway and pondered the scene that had just passed. What was it about the scene that tickled his mind so? There was something in it that was connected to the man with the cat. Something in it that was worrying him. Something that might be a clue.

The backdoor to the Waffle House opened again, and it clicked.

The scent floating out, that was waffles. And the man back there, he had smelled like pancakes. Specifically, like _Muriel's_ pancakes, the ones she had made this morning. He remembered, the scent was still on her dress and apron when she was taken. The man knew where she was.

Courage instantly ran out of the alleyway and back towards the direction the man had come from. Although he could barely remember the scent, he was able to find it, and followed it across the street and onto Palmer Parkway. The scent led into an alleyway and up to a brick wall.

Courage halted, confused. How could a scent stop at a brick wall? It made no sense.

Courage sniffed the air. Yes, that was the unmistakable scent of Muriel's pancakes vaguely lingering. But how could it be? How could somebody just enter this alleyway and disappear?

An idea occurred to him. He began knocking on the brick walls at the end of the alleyway. Soon enough, he found a part that not only felt hollow, but also seemed to be made of a different material. Courage steeled his resolve, knowing what he had to do, and rammed his head directly into the hidden door.

Naturally, he bounced off of it. So he tried again, only to get the same result. He then moved on to other processes: a drill, a sledgehammer, a battering ram, acid, a glass of lemonade, and his saliva were all utilized in an attempt to get in. However, soon enough, he had to admit to himself that it was useless. There was something very wrong here, and Muriel was definitely behind this door, but how to get to her? There was no way to get in whatsoever.

Courage sighed. Maybe he was just low on energy, and that's why he couldn't think of anything. He headed off to get a meal, hoping desperately that Muriel was indeed still behind that door–and, more importantly, would still be behind that door when he returned.

At the end of the alleyway, though, he stopped, turned around, and tried to use his head again. He bounced off. Courage sighed, picked himself up, and headed out to get lunch.


	16. Mexican Wine

Muriel woke up blind.

This wasn't the most unusual circumstance for her. Truth be told, without her glasses, she was far beyond the border for legally blind. Since she didn't sleep with them on, she often didn't even bother to open her eyes until after she had taken them from the nightstand. But she wasn't in bed. From what she could tell, she was tied to a chair and had a splitting headache. Not only that, but her eyes were wide open and seeing only blackness when they should be seeing blurriness.

She tried to remember what had happened. Why did she have a headache? Oh yes, those men. They had seemed nice, with their pressed suits and wanting to talk to her about life on a farm. They had wanted to know what it was like to be a farmer, but she had told them that even if she did happen to have a green thumb, Eustace was the farmer, not her. And then they had grabbed her, taken her away and thrown her in a van. She saw Courage running after her and screamed for him but then there was nothing.

Realizing what had happened, Muriel decided to pretend to still be unconscious as she took stock of her situation. She was tied to a chair, presumably blindfolded, had a splitting headache, and was unsure of her location.

Suddenly, a pounding beat filled the room. A voice spoke. "Ah, hello," it said. "I believe you remember me from when we previously met."

Muriel didn't react. The voice's tone changed to one of mild annoyance.

"Are you still asleep?"

Muriel didn't react.

"Incompetents," the voice muttered to itself. Muriel heard movement in the room. A drawer opened, and something was taken out, and then footsteps approached. A ghastly smell was shoved into her nostrils, and against her will her head jerked backwards. Her eyes watered and blinked, and she shook her head to try and clear the smell.

"Dreadfully sorry," the voice purred. "I'm afraid that smelling salts aren't the most pleasant scent to awaken to."

Muriel gulped. She knew that she'd have to stand strong and not give this villain what he wanted, no matter _what_ he threatened to do.

"I don't care who you are, you're not getting the secret ingredient for my special custard pie!"

"Oh, poor girl," the voice chuckled. "Do you really think this is about confections?"

"I'm not talking!" Muriel responded.

"No, my dear, this is about history," the voice went on, almost as if it wasn't listening. " _My_ history. And yours, as it happens to be. But mostly mine."

Muriel stayed silent.

"Well?" the voice probed. "Aren't you going to ask me how you fit in?"

Muriel refused to speak.

"Oh come on, I can't do this by myself!" the voice responded in an exasperated tone.

"You're not getting my secret recipe, and that's that!" Muriel told the voice. She felt proud of herself. That should teach the voice not to steal her away and tie her to a chair.

"Oh, your secret recipe is not what I want. _This time,"_ the voice hissed. _"I want your dog."_

Muriel jolted. "My Courage? But why?"

"Oh, come now!" the voice replied, more exasperated than before. "Are you honestly telling me you don't recognize me?"

"What would I have to do with you?" Muriel asked, confused.

"Are you telling me you don't remember?"

Muriel took a moment to process this. The voice had dropped. It sounded perfectly calm, perfectly sane, but underneath it was a sense of danger. On the surface it was perfectly polite, but underneath was the sound of a violent madman. She would have to choose her response carefully.

"No?" she ventured.

A loud exhalation was the only response. This was followed by the sound of teeth gnashing and footsteps walking away from her. The next thing she heard was somebody taking a seat in an office chair, and some scribbling.

After a few minutes, the voice got up and walked back over to her. It began pacing.

"Now tell me, do you honestly not remember me?" the voice asked.

"Why, no, I don't know who you are. Maybe it's that I can't see your face," Muriel replied.

The voice chuckled. "Clever girl. Maybe I should tell you about dogs."

"What about dogs?" Muriel questioned.

"They've been my downfall, pesky things," the voice responded.

"Oh, well–"

"It all started a few years ago. Fifteen, to be precise. That was the first time. That's when I fell down. But now I am arisen again. And if I am to rise, the dogs must fall. Do you understand?

"But let me start in the middle. The beginning was not a failure at the time, it seemed. Oh yes, to a perfectionist like me, it seemed like one, but standing back and gazing at history I see that it wasn't a failure. Just a mistake.

"It haunted me, that mistake, but I had bigger things to deal with. Bigger worries. I'm not the man you think I am at all, oh no no no."

"Oh, then who are you?" Muriel interjected.

 _"I–"_ the voice hissed _"–am the one who ran this town less than a decade ago."_

"Mayor Douglass?" Muriel asked.

"No, you fool. The mayor has no true power. I ran the criminals in this city. We controlled everything here.

"And then the dogs showed up, chomping away at our power, trying to take control. And we held them off, and I was the one who ensured that they weren't going to win. Of course, I never did find out how they sprang up. It could be that I wasn't paying enough attention to a few of the poorer neighborhoods. But I digress. Either way, soon after...a disgrace, shall we say, they started rising and battled my forces. Of course they were barely a match, but they managed to survive, so I knew I had to get my hands dirty. You know, show the underlings just what the boss is capable of. And I did, and would have, but then another dog arrived.

"You ever see a dog so angry it goes insane? It can be...quite the humorous spectacle. Of course, then he tried to bite me. Succeeded, too. I made it out, of course, but it seems he had a bit of the old Viking blood in him. Pillaged and burned that night. Nothing I could do."

The voice stopped, and then resumed, seeming almost sad. "I lost everything I had here, you know. It was my big chance. To show the bosses that I really knew what I was doing. And when I went back...they weren't pleased. They stuck me in a high-paying position in a shell company. It was...I made the best of it, but...well, I missed being in charge, you know?"

The voice suddenly perked up. "But then, well, a certain dog met his demise. Soon enough, another one will. And then everything will fall into place. So sit tight, my dear. Everything will be just perfect soon."


	17. My Michelle

_Shirley turned to her husband. "Hey, I'm kind of hungry," she said. "Is there somewhere in this town you think we could get a bite to eat?"_

 _Her husband, Vince, yawned, not opening his eyes or moving from where he lay on the bed. "I dunno, I don't really feel like going out to eat. Besides, we could always use a little more money for when we get to Albuquerque."_

 _Shirley smiled slightly. "So what do you suggest we eat?"_

 _"I dunno, sweetie," he sleepily replied. "Why don't you go out and get something for yourself? I'm not that hungry anyway."_

 _"You sure?" she asked._

 _"Eh, yeah," her husband said._

 _"You must eat, you know. I wouldn't want you to starve to death," she chuckled._

 _"Enh, I'm really not that hungry," he responded._

 _"Oh, I know you," Shirley teased. "You're not hungry now, but when you wake up you'll be starving."_

 _"I really don't think you have to worry about that," he told her. "Besides, the motel has a few vending machines in the lobby. If push comes to shove, I can try one of those."_

 _"You know they overcharge, right, mister frugal?" Shirley joked._

 _"It's okay," he told her, sitting up and fixing her in his eyes. "Look, you really don't have to worry about me."_

 _"You know you want me to," she said sweetly._

 _"That is true," he responded._

 _Shirley got up to leave. "Well, I'm going to get you a snack from the gas station down the street anyway. Chips alright?"_

 _"Yeah," Vince yawned as he rolled over in bed and buried his head in the pillow again. "Chips sound great. And–be careful out there, okay?"_

 _"I will," she laughed. Shirley smiled as she left the room. It was nice to have someone who truly cared about her. It had been a while since she had had a good relationship. She was just happy that she had finally found true love. In a few more days, they would be in Albuquerque. He had managed to pick up a job there as an engineer in the computer industry._

 _She knew it was an odd relationship–the medium and the engineer–but they complimented each other perfectly. He was rational, scientific, and optimistic, focused on numbers and methods; she was absorbed in the frequently irrational world of magic, and had a very cynical outlook on life. Yet, despite their differences, they got on well together. Part of it was his open-mindedness–some might call it naivete, but it wasn't that. It was that he was willing to accept that there were odd forces in the world, forces that couldn't be explained away rationally. Despite his love of science and math, he understood, somehow, that not everything revolved around numbers, that the world was filled with irrationality just as much as it was filled with rationality._

 _She loved him. That was the beautiful part–not that they fit together well, but that they loved each other. All the rest was just icing on the cake._

* * *

 _Shirley arrived at the restaurant she had seen advertised in the paper: a small place called Little Nepal. She entered and glanced around the place. It was modestly outfitted, with a few booths, a few tables, and a buffet section next to the kitchen._

 _"Excuse me," a soft voice said to her. "Can I help you?"_

 _Shirley turned to see a middle-aged, redheaded woman looking at her from behind thick, opaque glasses. The woman smiled at her._

 _"Yes," Shirley responded. "I saw that you had a special on your buffet for $2.50?"_

 _"Oh yes, our buffet special," the woman replied. "It's quite popular, you know. Well, the plates are at the start of the buffet."_

 _"Thank you," Shirley said. She paid and took a plate, heaping it with rice, chicken korma, and chicken tandoori. She then grabbed a glass and filled it with water. Taking her plate into the dining area, she unfurled her napkin and laid it on her lap. Inhaling deeply, she took in the scents of the food, and the proceeded to dig in. Within minutes, her plate was clean, and she headed back to the kitchen and filled it again. She finished this quite quickly and, feeling mostly satiated, walked back just once more and got a ladleful of rice pudding._

* * *

 _Shirley belched as she exited the restaurant. "Thank you for the delicious meal!" she called back over her shoulder to the nice woman manning the register. She smiled, rubbing her full belly._

 _Shirley walked back towards the motel that she and her husband were staying at, slightly off-balance as she walked. Suddenly, she stopped, remembering that she had promised to do something for her husband. But what was it? She couldn't remember._

 _As she walked down the lonely Kansas road, she wracked her brains to try and figure out what she was missing. Soon enough, it hit her: she had promised to get Vince some chips. She quickly turned and ducked into a 7-11. There, she picked out a bag of potato chips and paid for them._

 _Exiting the store, she spied the motel, not more than a quarter mile down the road. She smiled as she headed towards it. Today had been a good day._


	18. Red Dragon Tattoo

"Well that's all well and good, but if you don't want my recipes, what do you want?"

The voice sighed. "So, you really don't remember me at all?" it questioned Muriel.

"I'm afraid not," Muriel replied.

"Really? You bonked me on the head once because of your dog."

"EUSTACE?!" Muriel exclaimed, shocked by this revelation. The fact that her husband would be so evil to kidnap her, and that he would do this just because of Courage, shook her to her core. Why, she couldn't believe he'd stoop so low! What kind of monster had she married? And to think, he was a crime lord? How could this–

"Who?" the voice asked confusedly. "No. No, not at all."

"Well I'm afraid that Eustace is the only person I've ever met who has ever deserved a bonking for hurting my Courage. Of course, it's not his fault–" Muriel started.

"Um, yes, well–" the voice tried to interject.

"–that's just how he shows affection. Scaring people and making fun of them and whatnot. He's really quite a good man when you get to know him, despite his exterior. I think–" Muriel continued.

"I don't–" the voice started again.

"–that it had something to do with his upbringing. He occasionally mentions his brother in unflattering terms, although that seems odd to me. I met Horst quite a few times–the first was at our wedding actually–and he was quite a charmer, came off as a smart, kind man. But I suppose he–"

"This doesn't–" the voice began once more, a tinge of irritation at its edges.

"–and Eustace might have had something of a falling out, you know how brotherly relations are. Or maybe you don't, you haven't mentioned, but there may have been a bit of sibling rivalry there. Regardless, I have to say that Horst was a sight better than Eustace's mother. Now there, you talk about horrible people, well, she was–"

"Would you–" the voice snarled.

"–quite a rude woman, I'd almost go so far as to say evil. I suppose that it may have something to do with her upbringing, but regardless, she was unkind. As for Eustace's father, I never met him, although he did have some awfully big shoes sitting in part of the house–which explains quite a lot about Eustace, actually. However, I believe we were talking about Horst, and how–"

"WOULD YOU SHUT UP!" the voice screamed. Muriel fell silent, but for only a few seconds before breaking the silence.

"Well I never!" she said, insulted.

"SHUT! IT!" the voice barked.

The room fell silent. Muriel sat in her chair, which was growing more and more uncomfortable beneath her, and listened as the voice moved around the room. She heard the squeak of the office chair and a drawer opening. She then heard something being set onto the table, and the sound of pouring liquid–a drink into a cup of some sort, she surmised. Perhaps the mysterious voice was getting a cup of tea.

She heard someone take a drink. The voice then sighed. The chair creaked, and Muriel heard steps approaching. They stopped in front of her.

"Okay," the voice proclaimed. "Let's try this again."

"Try what again?" Muriel asked, confused.

"I'm Katz."

Muriel tried to remember if she knew any cats. There was that one stray that she had seen a few weeks ago...

"Do you remember me?" the voice asked.

"I'm afraid not, sorry," Muriel responded. "Unless you would happen to be a stray?"

"Really? Then let me jog your memory," Katz said. He paused, and then began.

"I have tried to kill you four times so far. This time, I am not going to try that–at least, not yet. It would be better to leave you alive until after I have dispatched with my true enemy–yes, I did learn my lesson from that psychotic dog."

"Oh, that can't be true!" Muriel interjected. "Nobody has ever tried to kill me, I'm quite sure of that."

Silence reigned for a few seconds, and then Katz sputtered, "A-a-are you senile? Or demented?"

"Of course I'm not!" Muriel replied. "It's just that I've never once had to fear for my life. After all, this is Nowhere. Nothing unusual ever happens here."

"...yes, _well,_ " Katz finally responded. "You don't even remember the taffy?"

"Taffy?" Muriel said. "Oh, I make a lovely taffy. Of course, it's not saltwater per se, but I've found that a good substitute is–"

"NO." Katz loudly proclaimed. "I. DON'T. CARE. Get it through your head, you batty old goat! I have tried to kill you on four separate occasions! I have tried to feed you to spiders, to destroy you as a washing machine, to turn you into taffy, and to drown you! Of course, in most of those situations, you weren't anything more than another rube, but EVERY! TIME! YOUR DOG! HAS! INTERVENED! AND HE WILL DO SO NOW! TO SAVE YOU! AND I WILL KILL HIM! AND THEN I WILL KILL YOU! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!"

Silence reigned for the next few minutes. Well, mostly silence. As Muriel listened, she could hear Katz heaving and panting as he slowly calmed down.


	19. Round Here

Courage stepped through the door, slipping into the restaurant like a ghost as he made his way to a seat at the counter. Sitting on the barstool there, he put his head on the counter, closed his eyes, and groaned sadly. He was out of ideas and out of luck.

"Be right with you, doggy!" Jean Bon called to him. Courage raised his paw in acknowledgement, but made no other move. For once, nothing seemed to be falling his way. Usually in situations like this, he'd be able to find his way to Muriel easily enough. Even when she was trapped, he could usually find her. And yet here he was, in a burger joint, wanting to drown his sorrows in ground beef with the vague hope that somehow things would turn out just fine.

Today had a different feel. Almost every other time he'd been in a situation like this, there had been some hope that things would turn out well. They had, of course; but in almost every other situation where Muriel, or the farm, or himself, or even Eustace faced great danger, there had been some levity, some sort of odd, almost comic coincidence that often helped him to a resolution. But nothing like that had come to pass today.

It was odd, actually; he had been trying to get those coincidences more recently. He had started to realize that usually things worked out faster once they started going stupid. That was the purpose of his final run; hopefully the pratfall would trigger something in the universe that would allow him to win, so long as everyone ended up looking like an idiot. But his attempt to make the situation comic rather than tragic hadn't worked.

"Ah, the cute little dog," a voice said from above him. Courage looked up into the smiling face of Jean Bon. "Tell ya what, I'll get you a burger on the house if you'll let my wife pet ya."

Courage nodded. It was a good deal.

"Honey!" Jean Bon called to the kitchen. "That cute little dog is here!"

Jean Bon's wife exited the kitchen. "Oh, what a cute little dog! I could just eat him up!"

Courage craned his neck towards the large sow and let himself be petted. The surprisingly soft touch of the woman's hands on his fur made him smile and slightly alleviated his distress. Soon, though, all he felt was terror, as he was suddenly picked up and held close to the pig's bosom.

"You're a sweet dog, aren't you? Yes you are! Yes you are!" Jean Bon's wife cradled Courage gently in her arms and rocked him back and forth. The swaying motion mixed with the distress in Courage's heart, and bile began to build up in his throat. However, before he could lose his composure and his cookies, the swaying stopped, and Jean Bon's wife set Courage back down on his stool at the counter. Courage's head spun as he watched the portly female pig make her way back into the kitchen.

It seemed to him that his stomach was just about to settle when the unmistakable scent of Limburger cheese filled his nostrils. Instinctively, he turned away and puked all over the floor of the restaurant.

Courage's head swam, and his eyes filled with tears. Blinking to try and clear them, he sat up again and looked to his right to see who the offending patron was.

The patron in question filled his field of vision. It was a large mouse, far larger than a mouse should be, larger than him, or Eustace, or Muriel. It had large, yellowed teeth, poking out in an overbite. Large, bloodshot yellow eyes with red pupils, too large for the sockets and bulging out of the skull. Two pink ears, one half-bitten off and the other torn. As for the body of the beast, it was muscular and stout, with the protruding belly serving as a distraction from the muscled chest and burly arms, one of which had a tattoo of an anchor on it. To top it all off, the mouse was wearing a grey wife-beater and black gloves.

"Hey Charlie," Courage said.

"Hey Courage," Charlie responded. He reached for his glass of water and took a drink. Charlie set the glass down, and then stared at Courage for a few seconds before he spoke again.

"I heard what you did for Bunny."

Courage didn't reply.

"I'm proud of you."

Courage smiled slightly, but this smile soon disappeared.

"A lot of us are, actually. You did a good thing, even if pretty much nobody knows it was you."

Courage perked up a bit.

"Now what's bothering you?"

Courage took a deep breath, and then blurted out "Muriel–kidnapped–men in black–Waffle House–help!"

The smile dropped off of Charlie's face. He turned away from Courage and faced forward stoically. Taking a big bite of his burger, he chomped on it slowly. Chewing several times, he finally swallowed. Without facing Courage, he said one thing.

"Rachel's."

Courage looked at him, puzzled by this statement. He waited for more, but none was forthcoming.

"Ah, doggie, there you are!" Jean Bon proclaimed, exiting the kitchen. "Here you go, doggie!" Jean Bon placed a hot, steaming burger in front of Courage. He then reached under the counter, grabbed a glass, and filled it with ice water. "And here!" he happily beamed, handing Courage a bag. "Take this to Eustace, on the house. One of my best customers deserves a burger too."

Courage took the bag, puzzled, and set it down beside him. He then proceeded to chow down on the burger, keeping one eye on his food and the other on Charlie. However, when it became apparent that Charlie wasn't going to say anything, he decided to put his full attention on the delicious burger. Doing so, he almost missed hearing Charlie repeat himself.

"Rachel's."

Courage paused mid-bite. His eyes ticked over to Charlie, but the mouse was still staring straight ahead and eating. Courage followed suit, biting into his burger and chewing slowly.

One bite passed his lips and was swallowed. Then another. Then another. Finally Charlie spoke again.

"Rachel's Test Tube Emporium."

Courage continued eating. He nodded slightly. _Rachel's Test Tube Emporium_ , he thought. He'd have to find out where that was.

Courage finished his burger and stood up. He grabbed Eustace's food and looked at Charlie.

"Thanks, Mr. Mouse!" he said brightly.

Charlie continued to stare straight ahead. "Don't tell nobody I told you nothing," he said, sounding completely stoic even though there seemed to be fear in his eyes. Courage took note of this and exited the restaurant.


	20. Think About You

_So she ran._

 _Ran as fast as she could, turning tail and fleeing for the glowing red exit sign that hung over the door at the end of the hall. Down the darkened hallway, poorly lit by buzzing fluorescent lights._

 _"Oh, dear. Please don't run," a silky voice behind her said. This only spurred Shirley to run faster._

 _"Oh no I don't believe it, you're still running. How could you?"_

 _The hallway spun and blurred around Shirley as she ran forward and onward and finally fell into the door falling out through it and into the street. The voice flitted behind her._

 _"Ooh, feisty. I do enjoy this."_

 _Shirley darted down the street not daring to look behind her at the figure chasing her down the street._

 _"I enjoy a bit of sport."_

 _Shirley kept moving, churning her legs. The only thing on her mind was escape. Suddenly, a bright blue object flew past her and impacted on the street ahead. It hit the ground and stuck. Another object, this one a neon green, flew past. Shirley saw an alley up ahead and turned into it just in time to avoid a red variation._

 _Sprinting down the alleyway she found that it was cluttered with trash. She hurdled it as well as she could and ducked underneath a broken chain-link fence at the end, barely making it through despite her short stature. Risking a look back, she saw her pursuer easily leap up and over the fence. Gasping for air, Shirley kept running even as more projectiles were sent her way. She began zigzagging down the street as she ran to try and avoid being hit. This worked when it came to dodging the projectiles, but as she ran she realized that hitting her wasn't her pursuer's objective; it was getting her to run inefficiently so she could be caught._

 _The worst part was that she was running out of breath and her adrenaline rush was beginning to fade. Thinking quickly, she straightened out and ran for the next street. Turning into it, she then stopped and hugged the near wall. Her pursuer ran into the street without checking to make sure she was still running straight, and skidded to a stop after running ten feet past her. These ten feet were enough for Shirley to take off and dart behind her pursuer. Confused, the figure chasing her looked around before realizing what had happened and giving chase again. By this time, however, Shirley had made it almost all the way down the block. She turned onto the next street and, spotting an empty trash can, jumped into it._

 _The figure stopped at the intersection. It had not seen where Shirley had gone, but it observed the street anyway. There were two ways that Shirley could have gone–either straight down the street or down an alleyway on the far side._

 _Her pursuer realized, however, that there was another option for the dog. It could have hidden._

 _"Come out, come out, wherever you are..." the figure hissed. It stalked down the street, looking for any obvious hiding places._

 _"I know you're around somewhere," the figure said. It wasn't speaking loudly, but the silence of the street amplified the sentence. Shirley's heart beat faster as she waited for the figure to find her. But she refused to move, to give away her position. If she was to be caught, it wasn't through any failing of her own._

 _Seconds passed, but the trash can did not open. These seconds turned to minutes, turned to hours._

 _Shirley still didn't budge._

 _She waited until the night turned into day. It was past noon when she finally worked up the courage to look outside._

 _Her pursuer was gone. Shirley climbed out of the trash can and walked down the road._


	21. Got the Life

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

"I have walked among sinners and done nothing to change their ways. I have run with the sinful and spent my life doing evil despite cloaking myself in the veils of righteousness. I have spoken of myself as a man of God, but have done nothing to earn the title and much to dishonor it. I have told myself to go forth and sin no more, and instantly sinned. I have proclaimed myself more righteous than my brethren, been seen as more righteous than my brethren, but when your brethren are vile sinners what victory is it to be slightly better? I have participated in their dark deeds with great enthusiasm, and I have soiled myself before God and man time and again.

"My Lord, I beg your forgiveness though I know I do not deserve it. I beg of you to forgive me. I have seen what the path of dishonesty and evil lead to, and I beg of you to save me. Help me to be better than I am. Help me to overcome my base desires. Help me to find a way to be a better man.

"I beg of you, Lord, help me become an actual good person. Smite me when I fail or stray from the path of righteousness. I beg this of you, for I am weak and I know that I succumb to my failings at every turn.

"I need your help, Lord. I need to know that you are watching me and that you want me to be a good man. I swear I will turn over a new leaf, no matter how hard it might be. Please, Lord, help me to become a decent person. Please, Lord, I am begging your mercy, your forgiveness, your help.

"Please, I need an answer.

"Please."


End file.
